Home
by Lanaea
Summary: In Progress. K/S, but slow-building. A misshap brings the Enterprise back to Earth for a while.
1. Chapter 1

Jim loved his mom. Where it really mattered she was a good person, and she'd always cared for him and tried to do her best by him. Her meaningless string of boyfriends he could live without. The way she looked at him sometimes, like she was trying to see the ghost of something intangible there, something other than just _him_ – that he could live without too. But he loved her, and so when the _Enterprise_ returned to space dock for computer repairs after a run-in with a cloud of sentient dust that liked to chomp on its memory systems, he agreed to her request that he stop by and visit her.

It wasn't like it was an inconvenience or anything, either. The whole crew was pretty much taking the opportunity to enjoy being grounded near Earth. But, if he was being honest with himself, he was a little worried about what to expect. He'd seen his mother briefly before the ceremony where he'd received his medal and his promotion to captain, and she'd been kind of… awkward. Like she wasn't sure if she was elated or terrified by the fact that he was in Starfleet, and looked to be staying there. Sure, she'd asked to see him, but that wasn't any guarantee on what the mood would actually be _like_ when he got there. And he wasn't exactly all aquiver over the prospect of meeting Stan or Dave or whatever the hell the latest guy living with her was called.

He'd tried to rope Bones into going with him, just to have someone there to at least help deflect some of the attention away from him, but the Doctor was a smart man. He wasn't going to let himself be dragged easily into a familial mess. Everyone else was occupied with their own reunions, so, Jim was resigned. Time to face the music. Or whatever the hell was waiting for him at home. It was a shame Sam's ship was still on assignment, or else the whole prospect might not seem so daunting.

"Just – just _go_."

Jim paused, his luggage bag in hand as he turned slightly in the shuttle bay at the sound of Uhura's voice. Both the words and the tone had caught his attention. She sounded upset.

It only took his eyes a moment to locate her, and when he did, he found his curiosity growing as he saw that she was with Spock. His first officer looked like his usual calm, reserved self, but Uhura seemed annoyed – even flustered. That second one was definitely a new look for her.

"…Very well," Spock agreed neutrally, only a tension around his eyes giving away that he was also agitated. He turned to leave, but Uhura's voice caught him again.

"Spock…" she said, hesitating, seeming to waver between two different points of indecision. One of her hands clenched and unclenched at her side.

"…It was not my intent to offend you," Spock said sincerely after a brief pause, looking back towards her.

For a moment the tension seemed to stretch between them. But then Uhura sighed and sagged a little. Reaching out she patted his shoulder as if to smooth an imaginary wrinkle away from his clothes. "I know," she told him. For a minute Jim thought he was just catching the tail end of some lovers' spat, and that they would start kissing again like they had in the transporter room. But they didn't make any moves towards one another. Instead Uhura graced Spock with a rather tight smile, and then hefted her bag and turned away.

Spock watched her go, and Jim watched Spock watching her go, his curiosity growing. His understanding of the pair's 'relationship' was pretty limited. Neither one of them liked to talk to him about it, and they seemed to be just as tight-lipped with the rest of the crew, too, since the rumour mill never had much to go off of. Was there trouble in paradise?

Well, it wasn't as if it would be easy for him to find out. No matter how nosy he tried to be with those two they always just sent him a firm 'none of your business', and that was that. Shrugging, Jim had only just resolved to head off again… and then paused. Because Spock was still standing there. Like a kicked puppy. Which was weird, because he didn't physically _look_ sad. He just looked all stoic and Vulcan like he usually did. To a casual observer it might seem as if he'd just decided that that particular corner of the shuttle bay was a good place to stand.

_Well, he __**is**__ your first officer,_ Jim decided, and then he slung his bag over his shoulder and walked over to him.

Spock at first didn't even seem aware of his approach, but once he'd drawn level with him, he spoke. "I am afraid that you will not find me particularly amenable to attempts to pry into my personal life at this time," he informed Jim solemnly.

"…Okay," Jim agreed with a shrug. "Want to meet my mother?" he asked.

Oh. Well _that_ was about as smooth as a brick. Jim wondered if it was something about Spock or something about him which always seemed to compel weird things to come flying out of his mouth when they spoke to one another. He hadn't even really been planning to extend the invitation. It had just occurred to him after Spock's comment, and then blurted out because he hadn't been able to think of anything else to say.

Spock looked at him.

Well, since he'd gotten here anyway, Jim figured he might as well go for it. "I was just going to head out home to see her, but I never like to do it alone. She always gets a bit… uh, well, anyway, if you're not busy you could come along," he explained. "She's not a xenophobe or anything," he then added in hopeful tone.

He winced before he glanced around, hoping that he was _only_ making himself look incredibly awkward in front of Spock. Which was still pretty bad, but the best he could hope for at this point. _She's not a xenophobe?! What the hell was that?_

"I would not presume to intrude upon a family reunion," Spock said. It sounded like a refusal but, Jim noted, he didn't make any move to walk away, either.

"Well, you wouldn't really be intruding," he said. "It's practically tradition that I'll drag somebody home with me when I visit. Personally I think she likes to guess who I'll bring along." Usually it was whatever fling-of-the-week had shacked up with him at the time.

He was sure that Spock would say no, and that would be it – the end of a very weird and awkward attempt at reaching out. So Jim was surprised when, after a few quiet moments of consideration, his first officer turned and regarded him carefully.

"You are certain it would not be an intrusion?" he asked again. Beaming ear to ear, Jim clasped a hand on the science officer's shoulder.

"Definitely not," he assured him, and then obligingly released his grip when Spock's gaze drifted pointedly towards it. He gestured towards the exit of the shuttle bay, almost unable to believe that it had actually _worked_. Granted, he wasn't sure how his mom would take to Spock, but he thought it would be a safe bet that he could keep things from getting all weepy. Nothing about the guy's demeanor invited weepiness.

_Plus it'll keep him from standing there and looking like someone just took away his ice-cream_, he added as an afterthought.

Even though most of the shuttlebay had cleared out by the time they left it, there was still a sizeable crowd bustling around the transports to and from the station. Spock seemed to tense marginally as people pushed past them, the normal barriers of personal space falling victim to the necessities of transit. Conscious of how little his first officer liked to be touched, even accidentally, Jim found himself moving to play bodily referee before he even really thought about, positioning himself between Spock and the worst press of the crowd. He missed the look of fleeting surprise which his actions earned.

An easy silence fell between them as they boarded one of the transports. Jim spared a thought for his old ride, which he'd given away when he signed up for Starfleet. He didn't regret the move – it wasn't like he still needed it, not by a long shot – but it was kind of entertaining to think about trying to talk Spock into riding with him. The necessitated close body contact probably would have sent the guy packing well before they ever hit the road. As it was he didn't seem very enthusiastic about the public transportation vehicle.

"Are you alright, Spock?" he asked as they got moving, and the half-Vulcan stiffened noticeably. "You look a little green."

Spock raised an eyebrow at him. "Captain, you are aware that my Vulcan physiology produces a natural green pigment-"

"I know, I know," Jim assured him, raising one hand. Jeez. Bones must be rubbing off on him – that was one hell of a crappy joke. "I was just trying to lighten the mood. And don't call me 'captain'. It's Jim," he insisted.

"…Jim," Spock reluctantly agreed, and he let out an internal sigh of relief. Good. He was getting a little sick of being called things like 'captain' and 'sir' all the time. For one thing, it made him feel about ten years older than he actually was.

He shot Spock another smile, and then cast his gaze out the nearest window to the passing scenery. Spock followed suit, the hum of the transport rumbling quietly beneath their feet as they took in the sight of open blue sky and solid ground. Things which were fast becoming a rarity as their assignments took them further and further from familiar space. Jim wouldn't trade the _Enterprise _for it, but still – it _was_ kind of nice to back on terra firma again.

"I have not spent much time on Earth outside of Starfleet Academy," Spock confessed after several minutes had passed, the low timbre of his voice startling Jim out of his reverie.

"What?" he asked. "You never did the tourist thing?"

With a glance which seemed to imply that Jim ought to have known better than to ask, Spock shook his head minutely. "There did not seem to be much appeal to the prospect. The temperatures of Earth's northern hemisphere are too cold by Vulcan standards," he explained.

"Oh," Jim replied, and wondered if that meant Spock was uncomfortable. But there wasn't a whole lot he could do for him if he was, and as it stood the guy was wearing much heavier clothes than what Jim had bothered with. It was late spring, clear and sunny, and Spock looked as though he anticipated an abruptly wintery turn to the weather. Funny – he'd just assumed that his first officer dressed that way because he was really uptight.

_Then again,_ he thought, taking in his sharp and distant features from the corner of his eye. _Maybe it's both_.

"I have been considering acquainting myself better with this world, however," Spock explained. Jim was surprised. Normally trying to have a conversation with his first officer about anything non-work related was like pulling teeth. But now here he was, by all appearances trying to make small-talk. Completely on his own, too, without any cajoling or needling on Jim's part. At first he felt rather secretly pleased at the change in pace. But then he remembered Spock's likeliest reason for having an increased interest in Earth, and his spirits tumbled down into the depths of solemnity.

He wondered how long the ghost of Vulcan would haunt them all for. It had only been a few months so far, but Jim couldn't help thinking – he'd never known his father, and the man had been dead for decades. Yet his absence could still weigh heavily on his heart, and still left questions unanswered in himself. So how far-reaching could the death of an entire _planet_ be? And that wasn't even mentioning Spock's more personal loss of his mother.

If you asked him, Jim would never say that he was a sensitive person. Him? Hell no. He was a devil-may-care son of a bitch, a love and leave 'em, no regrets, always running forward kind of guy. Because, like Spock, Jim had grown into presenting the image which other people expected of him. But the truth was that it didn't take a lot to make him feel really badly on behalf of other people.

"Well, my hometown's not much," he said after a moment, shifting slightly in his seat. "But if you want somebody to show you around we could take off for someplace better after we drop in on my mom." Truth be told, Jim had never really explored a lot of the world he lived on either. It might be interesting to sort of see it through the eyes of someone who hadn't grown up there.

Then again, the idea of trying to put himself in Spock's head was a little strange. Especially since he'd more or less _been_ in a Spock's head once before, and it hadn't exactly been a cheerful experience.

"I would not presume to cut short your time with your family," Spock replied, again fixing him with his inscrutable dark eyes.

Jim shrugged. "Don't worry about that," he assured him. "I was going to duck out as soon as I could anyway. All you'd be doing is giving me a good excuse."

His first officer, it seemed, didn't know quite what to say to that. Jim guessed he was thinking it over or some such as the transport brought them into the hustle and bustle of the city, and their conversation remained minimal while they completed the necessary dance with public transportation in order to get to Riverside. Spock looked like he'd been telling the truth when he said he hadn't left the academy much during his time on Earth – he took in much of the planet with the same quiet, intellectual curiosity which Jim had seen him use on alien worlds.

Except this wasn't another alien world. Now it was the only homeworld he had.

"So, anyplace you'd like to see?" Jim asked. They'd finally hit his home town, and public transport had been abandoned now for walking the long, old-fashioned dirt roads which still wound between the farmlands. A brief sentiment of nostalgia worked its way around him as he took in all that had changed since the last time he was here – which wasn't much – and all that hadn't.

"I must profess a curiosity towards visiting Canada," Spock admitted after a moment. Here amongst familiar settings, his alien characteristics seemed a bit more noticeable, but not in a bad way. _Exotic_, Jim thought, and then internally laughed at himself.

"Canada?" he asked. "I thought you said you didn't like the cold. It only gets worse the further north you go, Spock." Which of course his science officer _knew_, but it would seem that Jim had become incapable of asking him a question without teasing him a little. Maybe because on some fundamental level, the guy still looked like he needed cheering up.

"I am aware of that fact," Spock replied, his tone saying 'this is what is' and his eyes saying 'you are some kind of idiot if you honestly thought I wouldn't be'. Jim grinned at him as he elaborated. "However, my mother was born in Toronto."

His grin slipped at little. Right. Spock's mother.

All at once Jim wondered if he was inadvertently being an ass. After all, Spock's human mother had died just a few months ago, and now here he was, dragging the poor guy out to meet his own – still very alive – mom. On Earth, where both women had come from. _Well_, he thought, keeping one eye on his companion. _He could have said 'no'_.

"I've never been to Toronto," Jim confessed, trying to lighten the mood. "I once went up to Vancouver with Sam, though, when I was a kid. Or – well, I guess it was more like I ended up on a transport which took me there, and Sam tracked me down."

Spock gave him a curious look. So, seeing an opportunity to try and get onto a subject which was a little further away from dead mothers, Jim decided to regale him with several stories of his youthful escapades – pointedly leaving out one particular incident when he'd been about eleven and nearly launched himself off of a cliff. Those years hadn't exactly been the highlight of his life.

Time actually seemed to fly by as his voice carefully plucked out funny or interesting events from his childhood and laid them out for his first officer, their feet kicking up soft clouds of dirt as they walked, even and steady, side by side. He was grateful that the weather seemed to have been warm and dry for the past week, at least. It meant that there wasn't any bite or chill to it. He gestured as he spoke, sometimes becoming animated or engaged by his own thoughts and memories, or even chuckling to himself. It could have seemed awkward to talk like that to a companion who was so reserved and seemingly emotionless, but it didn't. Spock's measured responses and inquiries instead served to help him organize his thoughts and ideas a little better, and he could tell that he had the other man's interest.

By the time they'd wound their way towards a very familiar building Jim had recounted several semi-illegal, reckless, or even just plain stupid adventures he'd had, mostly in his teen years but a few from his childhood. He began to feel a twinge of guilt, wondering if he'd monopolized the conversation by talking about himself, but since they were essentially at the house there didn't seem to be much for it. And he didn't suppose that Spock would be in the mood to discuss his own past.

Discomfort settled like a shroud around his shoulders as they made their way up the wooden steps onto the old porch. This was the house of his childhood, the only home he'd known as a kid. No matter who his mother took up with, she had always refused point-blank to consider moving from the place. Even when it seemed silly to own a farm that none of them had an interest in, or to live so far out from the general center of the populace. He took note of a new wind-chime hanging by the painted white door, and the repairs someone had made to the porch since the last time he'd stood on it. There were new curtains in the window, too, and a few delicate-looking lawn ornaments he didn't recognize.

Raising a hand, he rapped on the door, trying to shrug away his self-consciousness and, without realizing it, moving a few steps closer to Spock. _It's just Mom,_ he told himself, but that was the thing, that was the trouble – 'just Mom' could lead to almost any wide variety of awkward results.

A moment ticked by with no response. Frowning, Jim peered through the window nearest to the door, and then knocked again. Nothing.

With a glance at Spock, he flipped up the doormat and retrieved the stained gold key beneath it. No fancy computerized locks for them. His mother had developed something of a mild allergy towards advanced technology after his father's death. With a familiar twist he turned the key in the lock and eased the door open, gesturing for Spock to follow him inside and tossing his bag into a corner by the door. The house was dark and quiet.

"I guess she went out," he observed. "Just put your bag wherever. Maybe she left a note…" he said, muttering the last part to himself as Spock gently lowered his own, much smaller burden next to Jim's, his curious eyes roaming over the old farm house.

"I was under the impression that most Earth domiciles are more advanced than this," he noted.

Jim shrugged and made his way into the kitchen. "Yeah, my mom's pretty old fashioned," he explained.

"Fascinating," Spock replied, almost absently, as he absorbed the architecture of the house. Jim was looking around, too, but for different reasons. There was some new furniture in the sitting room, and a new table in the kitchen. Someone looked to have set up a workbench of some kind in the study, too. Great – another 'handyman'. At least being a decorated Starfleet captain in his twenties might spare him the indignity of being called 'sport' at this point. He hunted around, looking for any signs of a note or message, and checked the lonely computer hidden away at the back of the old pantry, but nada.

"Ah, damn, Mom, you forgot again," he grumbled a little to himself, scratching the back of his head. Truly she was not a woman with any gift for keeping track of things, especially not time or dates. With a sigh he slumped into one of the chairs at the kitchen table, leaning back to watch Spock peer around his childhood home. The half-Vulcan was demonstrating a reservation about it which seemed at odds with his natural curiosity.

"Go ahead and look at stuff," he encouraged, and Spock seemed to notice for the first time that he was being watched. "Nobody'll mind."

Well, actually, he couldn't speak for Mr. Boyfriend, but if the guy suddenly turned up and took offence at having his first officer peer at some old-fashioned tool kit then Jim would just have to get offended right back. He'd put up with a lot of bullshit from a lot of people in his life, and if there was one thing he'd learned it was how to throw it into their faces. Sometimes he liked to think that he had a natural talent for pissing people off.

_Though I really wouldn't want to try that on Spock ever again, _he thought, remembering the painful shit-kicking he'd earned last time. For such a skinny guy he sure as hell hit hard.

As Spock took his permission for free reign to heart and began to examine some of the colourful, country-style artwork which decorated the walls, Jim glanced at the kitchen's old clock. They'd gotten in pretty early in the morning, and it was just about creeping down to noon now. He'd planned on probably visiting for a couple of hours and then taking off, but if his mother really _had_ forgotten and not just coincidentally stepped out at exactly the wrong time, then she could be gone until nightfall. He was tempted to just write out a note of his own to the tune 'well, I came by like you asked!' and leave, but he knew he couldn't do it. He couldn't intentionally hurt her like that. It would be like his thirteenth birthday all over again, when she'd forgotten the date and he'd finally snapped and yelled and threatened to really, honest to god run away, and then she'd cried and cried and been so mad at _herself_ that he'd felt like the worst son ever. Because he'd known it wasn't easy for her to remember his birthday – and the reason why wasn't either of their faults.

"Your mother appears to have a predilection towards rooster-themed objects," Spock noted as he moved to examine some of the knick-knacks and appliances in the kitchen. Jim chuckled, kicking back in the chair a bit and letting his own gaze wander.

"Actually, a lot of that stuff was my grandmother's," he explained. "But she sort of took it up herself, too, I guess. Pretty much everything around here is an antique."

It was actually a little funny to see Spock direct his keen observational skills onto a statue of a little wooden chicken wearing a straw hat. _At least they're all out,_ Jim noted, which he could admit was a pretty good sign that whatever boyfriend was living there now wasn't a complete jerk. The jerks tended to send the roosters into storage.

"Is there some cultural significance to them?" Spock asked, his eyes drifting over the tacky clock and the egg-timer decorated with pecking hens. Jim thought about it.

"Er, kind of," he decided after a minute. Then he glanced over at replicator, which was easily the most advanced piece of technology in the room. Probably the whole house. It was a still a pretty old model, though – nothing like the ones on the ship. "Well, I don't know about you, but I'm hungry and I have no idea when she's getting back. Want something?" he asked, checking the appliance's interface to see what the dated machine had to offer. "There's not going to be a lot of variety," he warned.

Spock glanced at him. "I do not require sustenance at this time," he replied. Then he seemed to hesitate – it was a marginal, subtle expression, and Jim almost missed it. But he didn't, and so he looked at the science officer expectantly. "…A glass of water would not be objectionable, however," he continued after a beat.

"Sure, no problem," Jim breezily agreed, and decided to just stick with water himself when he replicated their requests along with a chicken sandwich. Spock accepted the glass politely and then slid into one of the mismatched chairs around the table as Jim tucked in, the Vulcan's curious gaze still roving over everything.

"Have you ever been in a regular human house before?" Jim asked, the thought occurring to him between bites. Spock shook his head briefly in the negative.

"I had not previously been extended the opportunity," he explained. "My mother's remaining human family is distant, and I have never met them."

"You never went to Uhura's house?" he asked, and then immediately regretted it as Spock's already-subtle expressions seemed to close off and tighten up, sealing away some of the openness which had settled between them. He immediately back-tracked, not wanting to deal with having an ice-berg for company. "Sorry, right, I know, none of my business," he conceded, raising his hands in a very human gesture of placation. Spock seemed marginally taken aback by his immediate retreat.

"How uncharacteristic of you, Jim," he noted. "I believe this is the first time I have witnessed you assert that there is 'business' in existence which is not yours."

Jim's jaw dropped as he took in Spock's straight-face expression and the barest – possibly imagined, but he didn't think so – playfulness lurking just behind his eyes. "Holy shit," he said, and a wide grin spread along his face. "Spock, I think you're making _fun_ of me!"

He _was_, too, the sneaky bastard! He'd just up and called Jim nosy in his own convoluted, very Vulcan way. But the science officer merely graced him with a serene look of polite innocence.

"I am afraid you are mistaken," he said evenly. "Vulcans do not 'make fun', as you put it."

"Bull!"

"I assure you, it is not."

_But you're half human_, the thought said, lying quietly between them like some private in-joke. Jim could have spoken it aloud to point out the flaw in Spock's argument. But it seemed more appealing to leave it like it was, hovering quietly between them as a whisper of 'we both know better'. So instead he just gave the other man a knowing look and then turned his attentions back to filling the pit in his stomach.

When his sandwich was reduced to nothing more than a few crumbs left lying on the plate, Jim figured they might as well pass the time doing _something_, so he decided to show Spock around the rest of the house and the property. Technically his mom owned some of the farmland around the place, but she'd always paid someone else to work it, for as long as he could remember, and 'home' only really extended to the immediate zone surrounding where they lived. His and Sam's old rooms weren't changed much after they moved out, except that they'd been cleaned up to be more appropriate for guests. The chicken coop around back had occupants again, and Spock observed the domesticated birds with interest.

As he showed his first officer around, Jim regaled him with a few more stories and explanations, answering general questions about his old life and his family. It was strange – a lot of the time whenever he brought someone over with him in the past, he'd get defensive if they questioned them, feeling like they were prying or judging. But Spock's interest was just too openly curious and free of duplicity for him to mind.

Still, there was only so much talking Jim could do, and as the hours seemed to tick by he began to run out of steam. So he was pleasantly surprised when Spock seemed to decide to pick up the slack.

Since the weather had held, the pair opted to sit out on porch, watching as the first hints of faintest traces of pink began to creep along the afternoon sky. Jim was musing on the fact that Spock was turning out to be surprisingly good company.

"My mother used to keep pictures of snow," his first officer suddenly said, drawing him out of his thoughts with the unexpected comment. "She was… discouraged from expressing too much sentimentality in my presence, but that did not always stop her. I found her pictures to be fascinating."

Jim glanced at him, and wondered what it must have been like to grow up with a mother who was 'discouraged' from behaving the way most human mothers were instinctively compelled to. Sure, he and his own mother had their difficulties, but at least she'd never been withholding of affection. "She liked snow?" he asked, hoping that Spock would keep talking to him.

"I asked her once," Spock replied, and his eyes were a million miles away. "She said that she did not like snow. That in fact she had considered it to be a hindrance to the normal conduct of her daily activities when she was on Earth," he explained. "When I expressed puzzlement, she informed me that even though she did not enjoy the presence of snow, she also felt dissatisfied with its absence on Vulcan. It was an utterly human concept."

Jim waited, sitting there with the niggling feeling that he knew where this was going. He didn't have to wait very long before Spock continued. "However, I believe I have gained better insight to her frame of mind at the time. There were many things which I found unsatisfactory about my homeworld. I had not intended to return unless necessity demanded it. But now that return is no longer a possibility, I find myself… dissatisfied."

_You've got a talent for understatement,_ Jim mentally replied, wondering what precisely had brought on this stony confession, but oddly pleased that it had been bestowed upon him nonetheless. He didn't think that the word 'dissatisfied' even began to cover the sentiment which Spock was simultaneously expressing and suppressing, but he wasn't about to call him out on it.

"Yeah," he agreed as his friend fell silent, wanting to say at least _something_ but not sure how he could make a dent in Spock's grief. "I think that's one of those shitty parts about being human," he settled for at last. At his friend's inquisitive stare, he decided to elaborate. "You can love something and hate it at the same time."

There was a pause as the half-Vulcan turned his words over his head. Then, slowly, he nodded. "It is most illogical," he said, but in a tone which seemed to imply acceptance rather than objection.

"Yup," Jim agreed.

He thought that would probably be the end of the discussion. So he was pleasantly surprised when Spock launched into speech again, his quiet, neutral tones recounting a few more events or facets from his childhood. It wasn't the chaotic maelstrom of rebellions and upswings and downwards spirals that Jim's had been, and he didn't divulge nearly as much, but he was still surprised by some of the things he learned. Mostly the half-Vulcan talked about his mother. There were no more big insights or confessions, it was just… little things. Discrepancies between Earth's culture and Vulcan's which explained some of the behaviors that had confused him as a child. Her fondness for scented candles and Vulcan fabrics. The way she could even bring his logical, impressive, ever-intimidating father down a peg if she felt that he'd crossed a line.

Jim realized that it was stuff that Spock probably needed to talk about, maybe even more than Spock himself knew. He'd never say he related to the guy's position, but he knew some things about grief and humans. He couldn't speak for grief and Vulcans, although he supposed, given his upbringing, that Spock would already have that half of it covered. So he just listened, making a few comments here and there, and found himself enjoying the rhythmic tones of his first officer's voice while caught in reminiscence.

By the time he pulled himself up from the soft cadence of words and oh-so-subtle sentiment the sun had fallen onto the horizon, and Spock was casting it a considering look. "It would appear that I will be unable to meet your mother today," he noted at length, and Jim blinked at him.

"Why not?" he asked in honest curiosity. "I mean, she'll have to come home to sleep, at least. I hope," he added on the last sentence with a little bit of concern. Oh, damn, what if she was staying with some guy for the night? They would have spent the whole day waiting for nothing. Not that he could bring himself to regret it.

"If I am to make it to Starfleet's temporary lodgings for me before the transit system ceases its operations, then I will have to leave now," Spock explained reasonably.

Jim shrugged. "Why don't you stay over?" he offered. "You can sleep in Sam's old room. He won't care. Then tomorrow we can head out for some planetary exploration."

Spock seemed to hesitate for a moment. Before he could respond, the soft flash of headlights and a quiet, modern engine's _whirr_ distracted both of their attentions towards the road. _About time_, Jim thought, as he watched his mother's familiar 'hunk of junk' pull up to the house. It wasn't as old as the car he'd infamously trashed when he was a kid, but the gently hovering vehicle was still far from modern standards. He and Spock both stood up as the engine stopped, and Jim smiled in greeting when his mother exited the driver's side of the car. She looked like the only occupant.

When she saw them her eyes widened and her expression ran a gambit of emotions – first surprise, then mild confusion, and lastly, embarrassment. "Oh, Jimmy!" she exclaimed, closing the car door with a solid 'thunk' and then smacking both of her hands against her face. "_Godammit_, I told myself all week you were coming on Saturday and then the morning comes and I forget it!"

Somehow, he couldn't bring himself to hold it against her. Instead he chuckled, descending the porch steps and letting her wrap him up in a warm embrace.

"Don't worry," he assured her. "I just took the opportunity to show Spock around the place."

She pulled back, taking in his personal changes as he took in hers – there were fairly few, to be honest – and then turned her attention over towards Spock. She beamed at him, her smile the same wide, open expression which occasionally betrayed her son's softer side when _he_ wore it.

"I've heard a lot about you, Mr. Spock," she said, disengaging from Jim to give his first officer a thorough look-over. Spock's eyebrows seemed to rise marginally in what Jim recognized as an expression of surprise. "You tried to strangle my Jimmy to death that one time."

Spock tensed, and Jim shot his mother an incredulous look – where the hell had she heard about that? Because _he_ definitely hadn't written home to her about it. But before either one of them could comment she barreled on. "God only knows I won't hold _that_ against you, though. If I kept a grudge with everyone who'd wanted to kill him at some point or another I wouldn't even get along with myself. What were you two sitting on the porch for? Come on, it's much better inside," she declared insistently, and Jim could only watch in surprised consternation as his mother _herded_ his first officer into the house with her.

After a beat, he followed.

"I apologize if my intrusion is unwelcome," Spock said as Jim pulled the door shut behind them, and his mother waved him off insistently.

"Oh, don't be silly. Jim's always bringing people home. Frankly, I'm just glad you're not some glittery girl in a bikini top," she assured him. Up went one of Spock's eyebrows, but when he glanced at Jim, the captain could only shrug shamelessly.

"I was just trying to talk him into staying over in Sam's room," he said as his mother disentangled herself from her coat and purse and then dragged them both into the sitting room.

"Really? Oh, good, I just put some new sheets in there," she said cheerfully. Then she fell pushed them both onto the nearest sofa. "Now, tell me _all_ about what you two have been doing on that ship out there. Oh! Or should we eat first? It's getting late, isn't it?"

Jim watched as his mother talked herself into deciding to make get them all dinner and have them eat in the sitting room while they 'chatted', and then instructed them to _stay right there_ while she went and handled things.

"Spock's a vegetarian, Mom!" he called after her retreating form, receiving an affirming wave which said she'd heard him, and then leaned back into his seat. Well, it seemed she'd decided to settle for being happy that he was in Starfleet, for now, at least. He was also relieved at the absence of a boyfriend, at least for the time being – he assumed that there was one somewhere, however, given the mystery of the tool bench and the fact that he'd never known his mother to stay single for any great length of time.

"Your mother is very… expressive," Spock noted.

"Yeah, she's crazy," Jim agreed.

"I believe she has given me new insight to your friendship with Dr. McCoy. She has a similar – if somewhat less antagonistic – disposition."

It took a minute for the actual content of Spock's comment to sink in. Once it had, he shot him an incredulous look. "You think that _Bones_ is like my _mother?"_ he asked after opening and closing his mouth a few times and failing to produce a result. Spock glanced at him in a manner which implied that the answer was obvious.

"Dr. McCoy has often expressed particular concerns over your health and well-being, including your emotional stability, sleep, and dietary requirements, that exceed the normal standards of a dedicated medical professional. They are reminiscent of behaviors which I have been told are considered standard in the human style of parenting. He is also extremely vocal and unreserved in conveying his thoughts or emotions. Your mother appears to be equally demonstrative."

Jim looked at Spock for a moment. Then he blinked. Then he started laughing, and before he could forget to reign in the instinct, he clasped his first officer by the shoulder and gave it a fond shake to convey his amusement before letting go. "Oh man, Bones _is_ like my mom. I never thought of that before! Hah, I'd love to see the look on his face if you told him that," he declared, shaking his head.

"I have found in my experiences with him that Dr. McCoy does not seem overly receptive to my observations, however logical they may be," Spock noted, and Jim thought he saw that tiny, quietly amused look in his eyes again.

"I wouldn't worry about it," he assured him nonetheless. "Bones _likes_ to argue."

"That would be a most illogical trait. Your assessment is, therefore, likely to be accurate."

Jim started chuckling again. He'd noticed that Spock and Bones seemed to butt heads – most of the ship had, actually, it was a little hard to miss – but, as he'd suspected, there didn't seem to be any real animosity there.

"Are you two having all the fun without me?" his mother asked, re-entering the room with their replicated dinner and setting their plates on the coffee table. She seemed to have decided to err on the side of caution in light of Spock's dietary preferences and concluded that they should all eat salad. Jim did an internal shrug. Well, it wasn't like he'd ever come home for the _food_, of all things.

"Spock was just comparing you to our ship's chief medical officer," Jim explained good-naturedly, and that got the ball rolling on talking about life aboard the _Enterprise_. As per her request, he and Spock told her about some of their missions (edited by silent agreement to disclude a few of the more harrowing moments) and adventures, and spoke of their shipmates. She seemed greatly amused by the fact that he had decided to keep Checkov in charge of ship-wide announcements, despite his heavy Russian accent.

"It makes sure everyone stops and pays attention," he explained. "Because you have to, or else you won't have a clue what he's saying." His personal favorite announcement was still the one which the young man had made when they were scheduled to rendezvous with the U.S.S. Vivaldi near Venus, shortly after he'd gained his official captaincy.

Once again, even though Jim did most of the talking, he found that Spock's quiet contributions and interjections complimented the process very well. By the time the evening had worn down his voice was very tired, but he felt happier and more relaxed than he'd thought he would that day. His mother had taken in their tales with good-natured enthusiasm, her eyes hardly ever turning at him with that _look_, the one that said she was seeing ghosts.

Finally, though, the day's weight on him became obvious. Not that it had been particularly harrowing by any stretch of the imagination, but he'd only left the _Enterprise_ that morning, and uncommon fatigue was an expected side-effect of spending this many hours planetside after being in space for so long.

His mother took a look at his face and noticed it all at once. So Jim found himself shoo'd up to his old room while she showed Spock to Sam's.

As he clambered into his bed, he mused that this was the best visit home he'd had in a long while – and he'd spent most of it just wandering around the place with Spock. But he couldn't deny it to his tired mind, he really, really enjoyed his first officer's company. Spock was… well, to use one of the man's own favorite words, he was _fascinating_. Jim was a smart guy, but compared to the half-Vulcan's intellect, his own was just spit in an ocean. Yet his intelligence wasn't what made Spock such a compelling individual. Or, at least, it wasn't the only thing that did. He wasn't sure exactly _what_ the qualifying factor was, but he thought it had a lot to do with strength, and weakness, and dichotomy, and how well they stood when they were side to side.

His thoughts fell into a jumble as he drifted off to sleep, but his lips were curved into a soft smile.

---

**Author's Note:** To be continued...

Oh, and just to make this known - I like Uhura. A lot. She is badass. But K/S is my ship, and so the film put me in the position of having to break things off between her and Spock somehow. But don't expect any Uhura bashing from me.


	2. Chapter 2

Jim awoke to that familiar, foggy sort of disorientation which comes when you've been sleeping in one place for a while, and, unfortunately, your brain expects that place to be where you are in the morning, even when it isn't. He stared at the wall for a minute, waiting for his brain to catch up with him and tell him who repainted his cabin, and then memory hit and he let out a sleepy sigh. Right. He was at his mom's house.

Running a hand across his face he sat up and peered blearily at his alarm clock. The letters 10:05 glared accusingly back. Huh. He hadn't slept in this late since before he enrolled in the academy – it frankly hadn't been an option for him. Waking up at the crack of dawn was one of the toughest things to get used to at first, but now that he'd been doing it for a while, sleeping in made him feel self-conscious and uncomfortable. With some disgruntled muttering under his breath he slung his legs over the side of the bed and tried to force wakefulness onto himself. He was a little sluggish, so it took him almost a full minute before he remembered.

Spock.

Damn. He looked at the clock again. Yup, it was still just past ten – and somehow he didn't think his first officer would have taken the opportunity to sleep in. Which meant that he'd probably just spent the last few hours alone with Jim's mother.

Was that awkward? Oh, _shit_, what if she started showing him embarrassing photographs or something? She'd done that to him before. She thought it was _funny_. Her entire photo album was full of blackmail material that he'd never be able to live down.

_Sonovabitch, I have to __**work**__ with Spock!_ he thought frantically, moving to rifle through his bag for his things as he tried not to imagine spending the next few months stuck in space with a man who knew that he ate the soap as a baby. Or tried to, anyway. Oh, god, and there was that _school play_. With the tights. _Purple ones._

Jim flew from the room to the hall bathroom. He didn't _quite_ make record time in getting ready, but he came pretty close. His actual record involved a girl, the boyfriend she hadn't deigned to mention, and a firearm which was very much illegal according to Federation law. At least, he was pretty sure that was the record – he hadn't actually been at liberty to time it, given the circumstances. But he'd like to think that the threat of having some of his internal organs melted into little puddles would light a fire under his feet more quickly than the idea of being embarrassed did.

Then again, that was a lot of embarrassment to consider.

Once he was dressed and no longer in risk of looking or smelling awful, he all but jumped down the stairs two at a time. Rounding the corner he checked the sitting room first, came up empty, and then headed for the kitchen. But they weren't there, either.

Fortunately, nor were any incriminatingly opened photo albums, but at this point a lack of _blatant_ evidence wasn't much to go by. Still, it was a hopeful sign. He frowned in puzzlement as he folded his arms and wondered the two of them would be. Gone into town, maybe?

Moving forward he leaned over to check for the car outside the window, but then the very distant, very quiet sound of his mother's voice drifted to his ears.

_They're outside,_ he realized. Well, at least he'd found them – more or less. Steeling himself he pulled on his shoes and then made his way through the front door, following the vague sounds of conversation until they became clearer, and he found his mother and Spock. His mother looked to be feeding the chickens. Spock was with her, his hands clasped behind his back in his usual, slightly more relaxed pose while he watched. They both looked up at the sound of his shoes treading along the ground.

His mother beamed at him, and Spock graced him with a brief look of acknowledgement, straightening up a bit as he drew near.

"Sorry I overslept," he said immediately, before he noticed with some amusement that one of the sleek, black chickens was pecking around near Spock's feet. It matched his hair.

"Don't be silly, Jimmy," his mother assured him, rolling her eyes. "You're on vacation. How can you oversleep when you're on vacation?"

"I have been informed by your mother that this is a universal impossibility, regardless of medical, social, or personal factors which may indicate otherwise." Or, in other words, 'I would have woken you up but she wouldn't let me'. Jim shot Spock a grin. At the very least, it didn't look as though his first officer had suddenly lost all respect for him.

Then again, he would probably be very adept at hiding it if he had.

"Alright, I get it," he agreed, trying to take the diplomatic route and let the subject drop. "So what have you two been doing all morning?"

His mother waved a hand in a vaguely dismissive fashion. "Oh, just chatting and taking care of a few chores."

'Chatting' could mean _anything_. Glancing swiftly between the pair of them, Jim made up his mind, and then cleared his throat. "Can I talk to you for a minute, Mom?" he asked, hoping he wasn't making Spock feel purposefully excluded – even though he was purposefully excluding him. But Spock didn't show any signs of discomfort or tightening around his eyes, and his mom just grinned cheerfully and nodded, instructing his first officer to continue 'minding the chickens' as he pulled her away.

Once they were clear of Spock's singularly impressive hearing range, Jim got straight to the point. "You didn't show him any pictures, did you?" he asked.

His mom took one look at him, snorted, and then promptly broke out into giggles. His spirits plummeted. Oh, no, no, no, no… Spock had a _perfect_ memory. It wasn't like a human's, which got all fuzzy and degraded with time. Well, provided that he'd been telling the truth when he said that, but all current evidence seemed to back it up. He wouldn't be surprised if Spock's memory could preserve images better than the photos actually did.

"Jimmy, hon, you're so cute when you're terrified," his mother informed him cheerfully, and he frowned.

"Mom, Spock is-"

But whatever Spock was he didn't get a chance to say it, because his mother cut him off. "I know, I know, I'm just teasing you. You can relax – I haven't stripped you of your dignity. Yet."

Jim let out a relieved breath. Some of the tension rolled away from the pit of his stomach and out of his shoulders, freeing him from the headache which had been threatening to build up behind his eyes. Reaching out, his mother gave his wrist a quick, affectionate squeeze. But when he looked up, her expression was distant. "You're his commanding officer, after all," she said quietly. "He's got to respect you if he's going to listen to you."

Even though Jim's own thoughts had been moving in that direction somewhat, he found himself recoiling from the comment a little, and the resigned tones which his mother had adopted. There was a rhythmic quality to her voice which gave him the niggling impression that she was quoting someone, although who or what he couldn't say.

"His job isn't just to listen to me," he blurted, almost defensively, jumping to try and move the conversation out of dangerous territory. "He's _supposed_ to question my orders if he thinks there's something wrong with them. Or if I'm compromised. It keeps me from getting all obsessed over my own bullshit and screwing up." Not that he'd ever say as much to Spock's face.

But his words did nothing to bring his mother back up from wherever she'd sunken into now. Instead they just seemed to make it even worse, causing her features to darken a little, and she simply said "I know, Jimmy" before turning to head back. Discussion over, apparently.

He didn't know why he felt so annoyed. After all, he'd gotten the news he'd wanted – crisis averted – and none of the actual things his mother had _said_ were bad or wrong. It was just that last night she'd been so cheerful, and they'd spent the entire evening talking about him being a Starfleet captain, and _now_ all of a sudden she was back to closing off and getting all tight and tense and distant… he hated the look on her face when she got like that.

Well. At least he wouldn't have to put up with it for much longer. After all, he had _plans_ now. With one sharp, frustrated kick at the dirt, he turned and followed his own steps back to the chickens, where Spock was giving his mother one of his sideways glances.

"Come on, Spock," he said, marching straight past them and only slowing down to make certain that his first officer got the message. "Let's go sightseeing. If we get a move on now we can probably catch one of the fast shuttles to the border."

His mother was silent as Spock's gaze flitted between them. He hesitated only a moment, and then fell into step beside Jim.

"According to the computer repair crew's estimated time of completion, there are a minimum of four days of shore leave remaining to us. It is not imperative that we leave today," Spock pointed out reasonably. Jim glanced at him.

"Sure, but it's not like there's a lot left to do here, Spock," he countered, his shoes thumping up the steps of the deck.

"Your mother was expressing her approval over your visit to me this morning. Do you not think it would be prudent to at least engage in some activities with her before we depart?"

Jim paused, his hand hovering over the door latch, and took a breath.

"She seemed… withdrawn after your conversation," Spock added, with just a hint of disapproval in his voice.

"Yeah, well that's not _my_ fault," he snapped out suddenly, feeling the old lash of self-doubt and defensiveness wind him up – all of it neatly packaged in a nice little bundle which whispered that maybe it _was_. She never looked at Sam that way, after all, and god only knew why. His older brother was even the one named after their father. "I can't help it that I do whatever it is I do that shuts her down."

"You did not express to her your desire to leave?" Spock asked, clearly a little puzzled.

"Nope," Jim replied, maybe just a little bitterly, and then decided to just go ahead and open the damn door. Why was he hesitating anyway? The latch clicked under his thumb and he all but shoved it in, and then marched purposefully towards the stairs to retrieve his bag. They'd need to find travelers lodgings while they were off exploring, but that shouldn't be too much of an issue.

"Then you do not know what prompted her change in demeanor?" Spock pressed, surprising Jim a little – usually _he_ was the one trying to pry his way into the Vulcan's personal life, and not the other way around. "Inexplicable alterations in mood and behavior can often be seen as a sign of illness…"

"She's not sick," Jim cut him off, coming up short with one hand around the banister for the stairs. His grip turned white-knuckled as his temper – always an ugly, self-destructive quality in himself – reared up again. "I know what's wrong with her. I just want to go before I make it any worse."

For a moment he simply stood there, resisting the urge to do something stupid. Spock looked at him. But when he spoke again, his voice was blessedly free of even a hint of accusation. "I apologize. I did not mean to overstep my bounds."

Jim sighed, his first officer's calm and placating withdrawal deflating his anger like a pin in a balloon. Frankly he was a little surprised that Spock had _noticed_ anything amiss, but he shouldn't have been. The man was a keen observer, and just because he was suppressive of his own emotions didn't mean that he wasn't intuitive to those of others.

"Don't be," he said. "I guess it _does_ seem kind of confusing if you don't know much about it." Not that Jim himself knew 'much about it' either, really. But he'd given up on trying to understand how his mother's mind worked a long time ago. Or his own mind, for that matter. "Sometimes she's just… different. I was really expecting it to be a lot worse now that I'm in Starfleet, you know, so I guess I should just be grateful that it isn't. But it always gets worse once it starts," he explained, not even certain why he felt the need to.

"Curious," Spock said. "It is unlike you to retreat."

His face reddened slightly at the perceived chastisement in those words. "Yeah, well. What do you know about it?" he snapped. Spock didn't react to the comment, but nevertheless, Jim immediately regretted it. Still. He didn't think he'd quite evolved to the level of humility required for him to take it back. So instead he hurried up the stairs, trying to ignore the pressing flux of his own emotions, and the measured pace of his first officer following quietly behind him.

Jim relaxed marginally when Spock went into Sam's room to collect his belongings, and after he'd hastily shoved his own bag back together, he leaned his head back against the nearest wall. Maybe he was overreacting. But if there was something worse than being haunted by a ghost, it was being mistaken for one. He'd had his fill of it. When his mother got all distant like that, it was as if she didn't know whether or not she wanted to see whatever it _was_ about him that made her slip and fall beyond reach. He didn't even know how or why he set it off. And then Admiral Pike, much as Jim liked the man – well, he'd had something of that about him, too. Although at least with the admiral he seemed to have approved of… of whatever it was. The weirdest time had to have been with the other Spock, though. Jim was used to people trying to see someone else when they looked at him. But he was accustomed to that person being his father, and not himself from another dimension, or the future, or whatever that place would qualify as. Either way he was still sick of it.

And dammit, why should he have to put up with it? Why did people want so badly for him to be some other, long dead guy?

"I believe we are ready to depart," Spock's quiet voice broke him out of his thoughts, and he immediately straightened, noticing his first officer standing expectantly just outside the open door.

"Yeah… yeah, let's go," Jim hastily agreed, taking up his bag and making his way out. His mother was waiting for them on the porch.

"Taking off?" she asked.

"Yup," he agreed.

There was a moment of rather awkward silence between them, as his mother seemed to waver between relief and frustration, and one of her hands softly fidgeted with the edge of her sleeve. "You don't have to go so soon," she finally said. "If you stay for a while I can drive you to the transport station later."

Jim frowned, momentarily floundering in uncertainty at the almost pleading expression on her face. This wasn't how the pattern usually went. Normally when things started to get… strained… between them she just let him go. Quite often she even seemed a little secretly relieved about it, as if she couldn't handle the situation any better than he could. Maybe she was just going through the motions of protesting because Spock was there, but that wasn't much like her usual self either.

"I'm sorry, Jim," she said at length, as he searched for a suitable response which wasn't 'huh?'

"I would not find an extended stay objectionable," Spock chimed in, and, to Jim's utter shock, he then lowered a hand lightly against his shoulder. The touch was uncommonly warm, his alien physiology lending him a higher general body temperature than a human's. "There are still several aspects of this household's function to which I am curious. If you would permit me further examination?" he asked, before ending the brief physical contact.

It was the first time he could think of that Spock had touched him out of anything other than sheer necessity or provoked violence. "Oh… sure," he said, blinking a bit as he tried to puzzle out why his first officer had engaged in such uncharacteristic, if casual, behavior. He was so thoroughly distracted that for a moment he forgot just what they were talking about.

His mother shot Spock a grateful look. Then, before Jim could stop her, she gently tugged both of their bags away from them and carried them pointedly back inside.

"Well, I don't know what more you want to learn about this old place, Spock, but I've been meaning to repaint the back fence for ages now. I don't think anyone's touched it since Sam was in preschool. Why don't you and Jimmy lend a hand?" she suggested, and to Jim's surprised, made her way over to the new workbench in the other room. He couldn't see her anymore, but he could hear the distinctive clang and shuffle of her sorting through something. "Then afterwards we can go to lunch. Have you ever eaten in an Earth restaurant?"

"I have not," Spock replied, before glancing towards Jim.

Realizing that he was now just standing there with a sort of dazed expression on his face, Jim cleared his throat and attempted to regain his usual, more self-assured posture. _What the hell just happened?_ he asked himself, wondering how the situation had changed from 'let's get out of here before the shit hits the fan' to 'let's paint a fence and have lunch together'. He didn't think he'd ever been so thoroughly and non-violently shut down before in his life.

"I am afraid that my experience with 'painting' is extremely limited," Spock confessed when his mother re-emerged with a few very new and shiny-looking containers of paint, and some very old and worn-out looking brushes.

"Don't worry, Spock, it's not warpcore mechanics," Jim automatically assured him. The half-Vulcan took on one of his vaguely amused expressions.

"Clearly," he agreed. "However, given my understanding of warpcore mechanics, I doubt that I would be unduly hindered should any commonality prove existant between them."

"…Good point."

"Okay, okay, enough space-talk," his mother butted in, thrusting a brush at each of them and then leading them towards the back of the property. Spock examined his paint-speckled tool with reserved interest, peering at the metal strip which held the fibers against the black plastic handle.

_I was going to leave,_ Jim thought, resigned but still perplexed as he trailed along behind them. _The bag was there in my hand, Spock was right behind me… _he glanced towards his first officer, suspicions of mutiny dancing through his mind. It was amazing what an apology and a friendly pat on the shoulder could accomplish. _Sneaky bastard._

"Oh, Jimmy, did you notice the porch?" his mother asked, snapping him out of his thoughts. It _sounded_ like she had swung back to a more cheerful mood, but when he looked at her, he found that she was pointedly avoiding eye-contact. _She's trying not to show it,_ he thought, wondering at this new development – he hadn't seen her make that kind of effort since he was pretty young.

"Yeah," he admitted, and she treated him to a smile which didn't quite meet her eyes.

"Did it myself," she bragged. His surprise showed on his face, and she saluted him playfully with her paintbrush. "Bet you weren't expecting that, were you?"

"When did you get good at that kind of stuff?" he asked bluntly, and then winced and stopped for a moment to dislodge a pebble from his shoe. The yard around the house was pretty sparse, so apparently his mother's newfound aptitude for repair hadn't extended to landscaping.

"Well, hon, after you went off to the academy I needed to find _something_ to pass my time with, since I wasn't bailing you out of jail," she informed him teasingly.

"Jail?" Spock asked, and Jim flailed one arm dismissively through the air.

"Nothing bad," he insisted.

"Bar fights," his mother supplied helpfully. "Jimmy used to go to any local place that would let him in and goad some group or another into scrapping with him. He's good at it," she added the last as an afterthought.

"Yes, I was aware of his talent," Spock agreed, slowing his pace a little so that he was walking directly next to Jim now. "Although I cannot help but speculate as to why such a process would hold appeal."

"I don't go _looking_ for trouble," Jim argued defensively. "I just don't back down when it finds me, either."

Spock raised an eyebrow at him.

"Okay, well, _yeah_, there was that one time, but that was different. And you know it!" he insisted.

"I am aware of the mitigating circumstances," Spock agreed, in a tone which implied that he was completely unconvinced by Jim's argument.

He threw his hands into the air. "How did we get onto this topic anyway?"

"I don't know, Jimmy," his mother replied, causing him to narrow his eyes at her. But she just shoved a can of paint into his hands and started taking stock of the back fence's condition.

The structure had been on the property for as long as Jim could remember, and it was not exactly a useful or appealing feature. It only ran against the one side, acting more like a barrier than a fence, and several of the posts had been knocked out or broken off over the years. If you'd asked him, he'd say that it was well beyond the 'coat of paint' stage and into the 'tear it down and build another' one, but his mother insisted that she _liked_ its raggedy appearance.

So, refraining from argument, Jim instead cracked open the container of paint he'd been handed. _"Blue?"_ he asked, giving the contents a skeptical look. It was robin's egg blue, clear and crisp and undoubtedly the wrong colour for a fence. Or any structure of considerable size.

"It's _fun_," his mother insisted. Spock shot him a glance, but Jim could only shrug – what could he say? There were times when humans baffled each other just as much as they baffled Vulcans.

Jim was about to ask if they should wash the thing first before they just slapped some colour on it, but it looked like his mom really _had_ been planning on doing this at some point – the gaps between the posts had been cleared out and most of the boards were clean, if still uneven and patchy. The comment died before it left his lips, and he found himself watching out of the corner of his eye as his mother demonstrated the up-down motion of the brush for Spock. Clearly, this was not going to be a professional job. However, he was pretty certain that, all familiarities with fence-painting aside, Spock's boards were going to look a hell of a lot better than his own. Especially if he applied himself with his usual dedication – and frankly, he hadn't seen him do anything less for a task.

Jim went at his own boards with half-hearted enthusiasm, choosing to focus instead on his mother as she peppered Spock with a few questions. How did he like his job? What were his preferred scientific fields? How long had he been in the academy for? Did he have a boyfriend?

Jim's hand slipped when he heard _that_ particular question fly out of her mouth, sending a crooked line of pain slanting against the board. Turning his head he gaped at her. _Oh god,_ he thought. _Please, please god, don't let my mom be coming on to __**Spock**_**. **That would just be beyond weird. Creepy, freakish… wait. She asked Spock if he had a 'boyfriend'. Which was an odd gender preference to specify if she was going after him herself.

Well, that was a relief. It was still pretty out of the blue and strange, though. Spock looked like the engine in his brain had momentarily stalled, if the way his hand had frozen mid-stroke and his expression had turned utterly inscrutable was anything to go by.

"…I do not," the first officer settled for eventually. The engine re-started and his wrist returned to its precision movement.

"Oh, well, I'm sure you'll find somebody," his mother assured him. "What about you, Jimmy? Any new 'friends' to tell me about?"

"Nope," he said cheerfully, not sure why but actually feeling proud of the fact that he'd managed to go for a few months without throwing himself into the arms of some casual fling. He guessed that it was probably because that still seemed like a throw-back to his old bad behavior, and he was trying to cure himself of it. "I've been too busy." Then, because he _was_ starting to get a bit curious, he decided to ask: "have you met a new guy yet, Mom?"

"I haven't," his mother replied, much to his surprise. When he looked over at her she gave him a smile – and this time, finally, it didn't seem strained or forced. "After you left I decided it was kind of nice to have things be quiet for a while. Peaceful. Of course, it's also a little awkward to find a new date when you've been out with pretty much every guy in town," she said playfully.

Spock raised his eyebrows at the both of them. "I was under the impression that frivolity in romantic relationships was not considered to be a desirous trait in humans," he observed. Jim leaned towards him in a mock-conspiratorial fashion.

"It isn't," he said, and then enjoyed the brief look of consternation which flitted behind his first officer's betraying eyes. His mother was watching their interaction with an inscrutable look on her face. Then she smiled, and to Jim's pleasant surprise, began whistling an old tune from his childhood as she moved a little further down the fence.

"Mrs. Kirk," Spock inquired after a moment of companionable painting. "What is that song?"

"Oh, just a sort of lullaby I used to sing for the boys," she replied. "It's actually the theme from an old 'television' series I used to watch in cheap vids when I was younger. And call me Winona, 'Mrs. Kirk' is reserved for kids under twenty."

Jim glanced at Spock just in time to catch the half-Vulcan glancing towards _him_. Okay, so, maybe he and his mom had a couple of things in common – the whole 'use my first name' thing and the 'meaningless string of failed relationships' thing and all. But what did he expect? Contrary to popular belief, Jim hadn't sprung from a dead father and _nothingness_.

He expected that Spock might point out this similarity, or make some further inquiry about the nature of the song and its origins. He was pleasantly surprised, then, when instead of commenting, his first officer remained silent for a few beats – and then started whistling the tune along with his mother. He nearly dropped the brush as the strong, steady sound flowed effortlessly from Spock's lips, neatly matching the rhythm and form of music he'd only _just_ heard. For a minute he simply listened in some impressed surprise. Then, unable to resist, Jim chimed in as well, adding his own whistle to the duet's familiar tune. _I didn't know he liked music,_ he thought of Spock. But clearly the man did, or else, Vulcan or no, Jim didn't think he would be able to express it so skillfully.

Their whistling stretched across the yard as their work caused them to spread out, the formation made haphazard by the casual approach they'd taken to the job. Still, with three people and a fence that wouldn't precisely qualify as huge, it wasn't too long before the first coat of paint was down and his mother happily dumped her brush into the near-empty container.

"Alright. Lunch," she declared firmly, wiping a hand across her brow and shooting a glance skyward. The weather was as clear and warm as it had been the day before.

"Sounds good to me," Jim agreed, feeling a little parched and hungry from sleeping through breakfast. He rolled his arm to try and ease up some of the muscles that had worked at painting before he shot Spock a glance. "Not the steak-house, though," he said thoughtfully. Somehow he didn't think Spock would take very well to a building with dead animal heads on the walls – artificial as they may be.

"No," his mother agreed. "Not the steak-house."

"Assuming that 'steak-house' refers to an establishment which has the primary function of serving meat, I appreciate your consideration," Spock said.

"Don't worry about it," Jim assured him. "I'm not even sure if I'm allowed back in there."

"You are," his mother informed him. "It's the steak-_hut_ you can't go in. Remember? The manager made me replace all his tiki-torches?"

Jim's face lit up in recollection. "Oh yeah!" he declared, recalling the disaster with uncommon fondness. Of course, he'd only been nine at the time, and it _was_ pretty damn funny. He decided to regale Spock with an accounting of the incident as they made their way back inside – being forced a few times to assure his first officer that, no, he wasn't a pyromaniac, he was just a sucker for the domino-effect. He didn't even notice his mother's thoughtful glances towards the two of them as he carried on animatedly, or the way he seemed to arrest Spock's attention while they spoke. But he did happen to look over in time to see her giving him a funny sort of smile. Not the blank, hollow expression she'd worn before, but something equally difficult to decipher.

"What?" he asked, a touch-self conscious as he wondered whether or not he'd said something wrong.

"Nothing," his mother assured him. But her smile got a little wider.

---

**Author's Note:** Thanks to everyone who read, reviewed, favourited, alerted, or any combination therein. You guys are much appreciated! I just thought I'd mention that even though I have a general outline in mind for this story, I'm open to suggestions, so as long as it's not completely off-the-wall feel free to bring up things you might want to see happen. I won't guarantee they'll make it in since I've still got to get this whole thing to work, but I'm always looking for inspiration.

Also, since I was asked - Yes, I'm Canadian, but I've never been to Toronto (just Alberta and northern B.C.). Spock's mom really _is_ from there, though, I didn't make that part up.


	3. Chapter 3

His mother insisted that they should try a new place which had opened up sometime after he'd left for Starfleet, even though none of them had a good idea of what to expect from it. Jim almost laughed out loud when they walked into the restaurant and the first sight he was greeted with was a black-painted wall covered in tacky, glittering stars, and hanging model ships. The whole 'theme' of the restaurant appeared to be a playfully cheap take on space exploration, complete with furniture accents in Starfleet colours and a 'view screen' style window.

"Winny!" a woman who was about his mother's age – and vaguely familiar, to boot – squealed from behind a gold-topped bar. Then she dashed forward, and Jim had to take a step back to keep his eardrums from bursting as his mother proved that, in fact, high-pitched vocal excitement was _not_ limited to teenage girls. He looked over at Spock, who was examining the restaurant with a certain quiet bemusement, and felt briefly impressed with that oh-so-Vulcan self-control. Because he was pretty sure that his ears were ringing.

"Oh my good god, is that Jimmy?!" the still-nameless woman declared, and before he could react he was pulled away from Spock and into a spine crushing hug. "I haven't seen you since Stanley tried to get you thrown in jail! How old were you then? Eleven?" she asked, and recognition hit as he realized who he was looking at – one of his most despised step-fathers' much more likeable sister. Carol, he thought her name was, or maybe Catherine. He wondered why she would be so happy to see him, all things considered. But when she finally pulled back, holding onto his shoulders with a near iron-grip, she was smiling from ear to ear.

"You shoulda seen the look on Stan's face when they showed the newscasts about the brilliant young acting-captain who'd saved Earth, with your picture and all!"

Well, whatever her name was, she had one of those naturally loud voices that just filled up a room without putting a lot of effort into it. So after a second Jim realized that the entire restaurant had gone oddly quiet, and that several faces had turned to watch the exchange in open curiosity. A murmur started.

"Jimmy? Does she mean Jim Kirk?"

"Is that him?"

"Oh, it is! I recognize from the newscast. You remember, they had that big picture of him at the academy-?"

"I thought he was taller…"

"James Kirk! Wow!"

"That's that Spock guy with him, too! Isn't it?"

He blinked, pulling back a bit as a few people openly stared, and a couple of little kids peered around their seats at him, whispering. Jim was used to getting attention, but it was generally of a more negative or accusatory type. This idea of just walking into a building and creating a sudden buzz of excitement was utterly new. Traditionally, when all eyes were on him, he'd put on a cocky air – but that was a defensive mechanism. Something which flared up in retaliation to threats or condemnation.

To be quite honest, he didn't have the first clue how to react.

Luckily, however, he didn't need to take the time to decide, because their hostess – what the hell _was_ her name? – seemed to notice the awkwardness which had fallen down around them, and quickly hustled them into a booth. She was still all smiles and talk, however. "Of course, we always knew you'd do something spectacular once you put your mind to it!"

"Mmhmm," his mother agreed, patting his shoulder affectionately. "Except pretty much everyone was sure it'd be illegal."

Moving a little closer to familiar ground, and ensconcing himself in a seat that at least meant _he_ couldn't see the people looking at him, Jim grinned. "It almost _was_ illegal," he agreed cheerfully. Mutiny, after all, was quite a crime under Starfleet regulations. He slid over in the booth with a gesture for Spock to take the seat next to him, and finally the half-Vulcan seemed to catch the attention of his mother's friend. It was an odd delay. After all, Jim mused, Spock was very eye-catching, and just as big a contributor to saving Earth as he was.

"So you'd be Commander Spock, then?" she said, looking him up and down. "They don't lie when they say Vulcans are quiet-types, do they?"

"Oh, I wouldn't be too sure, Caroline," his mother said before either of them could comment. "I think you just need to get him on the right subject and he'll talk your ear right off."

Later, Jim would be hard-pressed to say how he could tell that the figure of speech had confused Spock. But before his first officer could comment, he leaned over, and said to him quietly: "you remember when Bones was arguing with you about 'colourful turns of phrase'?" he asked. Dark eyes flickered over to him briefly in comprehension, and Spock replied with a minute, understanding nod of thanks.

A voice from a half-open doorway behind the bar called for Caroline. Flashing another smile at them, she promised to send a waitress over, and then took off. Jim folded his arms onto the table and lowered his head against them. "I can't believe they put my picture in a newscast," he said. Not even a good picture, either, from the sounds of it, but that weedy one he'd had to get taken when he enrolled.

"It would be consistent with the patterns established by Earth's media history," Spock pointed out in reasonable tones, his gaze examining the red and gold swirls which decorated their table top with some interest.

"So in other words, I should have known better?"

"Indeed."

Jim tilted his head and shot Spock a wry grin. "Well, at least I'm not in this boat alone. Apparently you get to be famous, too."

His comment earned him a raised eyebrow.

Spock opened his mouth, clearly intent on some reply, but his words halted before they were formed and instead he turned his head inquisitively sideways. Jim followed the new direction of his focus to discover that the children who had been peering at them just a minute ago, when they were at the front of the restaurant, had made their way over to their table. They couldn't have been more than seven or eight, he guessed, although he wasn't really familiar with kids.

"Are you Captain Kirk?" the girl asked. Jim blinked. _Man_ was he glad that Bones wasn't here to see this, or else he'd never live it down.

Shifting uncomfortably in his seat, he adopted a somewhat awkward smile, and nodded. The kids looked between himself and Spock with open and naïve curiosity.

"_Cool," _declared the boy. "Did you really do all those things they say you did?"

It took Jim a minute to process that the children were _probably_ referring to his more heroic escapades. Then again, this was his hometown. It wasn't like they were going to forget the terror he'd been when he was younger just because he'd managed to keep from making a complete ass of himself after he left. Right?

Well, either way, the answer was still the same. "Sure," he said. When the children continued to look at him expectantly, he shifted, and then shot an awkward glance at Spock. His first officer was watching the exchange with his usual aloof detachment. "Uh, but, Spock did a lot of it, too. The good stuff, I mean," he added hastily. _Well, and some not-so-good stuff, but hopefully they didn't include that in the newscast._

The children looked at Spock. Whether it was his alien appearance (unlikely, given that they got their fair share of off-planet visitors even in Riverside these days) or his demeanor (probably the culprit), they seemed uncertain of him. After several awkward moments ticked past, Jim decided to see if he couldn't send them on their way.

"Uh, well, it was nice meeting you kids. Er… stay in school," he instructed them, in an attempted tone of 'here's your lesson, now run along'. There was another moment of awkward silence. Then the boy rolled his eyes, but at least it seemed to work, as they took their cue and headed back to their parents' table. _Did I just __**say**__ that?_ he wondered a little hopelessly, before looking across the table to see his mother doing a bad job of choking back her laughter.

"Not a word," he instructed her pointedly as she clasped her hands around her mouth and shook with little tremors of amusement.

"Fascinating," Spoke noted, his eyes following the children until they were no longer running across the restaurant. "Such a fruitless encounter seems illogical."

"Oh, they probably just wanted to be able to tell their friends that they'd talked to you," his mother reasoned, laughing a little bit around her own words.

Spock turned to her. "And yet, they made no substantial inquiries or attempts to initiate even basic conversation."

"They probably didn't know what to ask," she reasoned.

"Then to what end would recounting the incident serve? Even a cursory examination of events would reveal that nothing noteworthy was accomplished by it. Will they not suffer humiliation if they project the pretense that they are acquainted with Jim and myself when their peers inevitably deduce the true extent of our contact?"

His mother gave Spock a blank stare. Jim decided to step in. "They're just kids, Spock," he said. "You can't take it too seriously."

For a moment it looked as though his first officer might continue with his line of questioning. But, looking between his two human companions, he seemed to decide the better of it. Jim sighed, wondering how someone who didn't generally convey emotions could do such a good job of projecting them anyway. He glanced back to where the kids were to see that, like most children, they hadn't been able to sit still for long. The pair had instead moved over to a side of the restaurant which had a static-filled vid screen, and one of those old rip-off games with a computerized claw and a bunch of toys stacked up beneath it. As he watched, they moved over to it, peering inside and pointing out the different colourful playthings to one another.

Their waitress came over. Jim glanced at her – a pretty girl with sparkling eyeliner and a slightly nervous smile, dressed in a low-cut, tight-fitting shirt that would seem more appropriate for a bar scene than a family restaurant. She started listing off the specials, not quite meeting anyone's eyes and blushing a pleasant shade of pink.

Jim looked over at Spock, who was still his usual stone-faced self, and then back at the kids. For the second time he sighed, before he addressed his mother. "Just get me whatever," he instructed, and then before he could change his mind, he jumped neatly over the back of the booth and walked over to the claw game. He tried to pretend that he wasn't aware of the eyes on him as he made his way towards the kids, who looked up at his approach.

"What do you like?" he asked, gesturing towards the game. The pair glanced at each other, and after a brief, whispered conference, the girl answered.

"The starship," she said, pointing to a plush toy in the shape of one of the Federation's finest. It looked sort of like the Enterprise, actually. With a grin, Jim hit the activation button for the game, and then hoped he still hadn't lost his touch for this kind of thing. Being in command of a ship seemed to involve more paperwork than actually _using_ any of his vessel's considerable technology. It was, in his opinion, one of the downsides. Still. With the kids watching his every move – and who knew who else in the restaurant doing the same – there was some pressure.

Jim _thrived_ under pressure.

The claw clicked and whirred to life, flashing meaningless lights as the bulky, uncoordinated control system fought him every step of the way. These things had intentionally crappy grip. The trick was to try and get something on the toy to snag in the claw, or aim for something close to the drop point. Unfortunately, the kids had picked a toy without any loose, dangling parts, and which was clear on the other side of the box. But he could do it – he just had to make sure the hook went around the warp nacelles like… so! Ha! He grinned as the claw folded clumsily around the toy ship, but wound up tangled between the body of the vessel and the jutting nacelles. Moving over the drop-chute, it retracted, and the ship fell into the opening. Jim quickly retrieved it and then handed it to the children, who were both grinning.

"Thanks!" the girl said promptly. After a beat, she elbowed the boy.

"Thanks!" he echoed before shooting her an annoyed glare.

"Yeah, uh, well you're welcome," Jim replied, ducking his head a bit in an instinctive gesture against the stares they were still receiving, and then hurried back to the booth. He slid in over the back again, grateful to be out of the immediate line of uncanny attention once more as he sank in next to Spock. The waitress seemed to have gone.

Spock gave him an inquisitive look. He shrugged.

"Hey, now they'll have something 'substantial', right?" he pointed out.

His first officer regarded him, and then tilted his head, briefly, in acknowledgement. After a moment, Jim found himself growing a little uncomfortable at trying to decipher the subtle change in Spock's expression, and so instead he turned to his mother. Who was grinning at him. Like a maniac. He blinked, perplexed as her smiling face turned from him, to Spock, then back again.

"_What?_" he demanded, displeased to see the return of her 'mysterious' smile.

"Nothing," she said, in a tone which naturally implied that there _was_ something, it was hilarious, and she had no intention of telling him about it. Before he could interrogate her further, she abruptly changed topics. "I ordered you a salad."

Jim resisted the urge to slump over in disappointment. "Mom, you know Spock doesn't mind if _we_ eat meat, right?" Or at least he didn't seem to. He'd seen him eating with Uhura plenty of times in the ship's mess hall, and the communications officer certainly wasn't a vegetarian.

"Well, salad's good for you," his mother replied breezily.

Jim just shook his head, wondering at his luck. The first time in ages he was given a chance to eat non-replicated food and it was _salad_. Which he'd had last night, he might add. Not that there was anything particularly wrong with replicated food, it was just… well, there was a reason why people still went to restaurants. Nothing quite came up to the same standards as hand-made food. At least they still had several days of leave left, so it probably wouldn't also be his last opportunity.

"I have found in my experience under your command, Jim, that vague instructions often undermine your leadership skills," Spock added unhelpfully.

_At least he didn't tack on a 'such as they are' this time_, Jim thought, recalling the last time his first officer had called his abilities at giving orders into question. He guessed that he had a point – not that he'd tell him so – but really, was it so strange to just think you could trust people to know the things that they _knew?_

Annoyed now, Jim spent the next few minutes staring sullenly at the décor, ignoring his mother's attempts to reel him back into conversation. Of course, it was stupid to try and lead by telling everybody every little thing. He wasn't as good a pilot as Sulu, for example, so he'd never presume to tell the guy how to fly the ship. But… on the other hand, Spock had clearly meant his comment more in the sense of making sure he told him what direction to pilot the ship _in_. This whole being an authority figure took some getting used to, when it wasn't just part of a simulation. After all, Jim had always sort of resented the authority figures in his life. It was a little eerie to then go and _become_ one.

"I think he's brooding," he heard his mother stage-whisper to Spock. Jim glared.

"Your assessment would appear to be accurate," Spock agreed.

He was just about to launch into the process of grumbling that his own first officer couldn't even seem to take his side when the waitress returned, carrying a tray filled with their lunch. When she saw Jim she blushed a bit more and quickly averted her gaze, focusing it instead on carefully lowering their plates and glasses. _Well, hey there,_ he thought, finally noticing that her nervous demeanor was a result of _his_ presence. But then he gave an internal frown. Was it because she thought he was cute (which he was, thank you very much) or because he was 'James T. Kirk, that Guy Who Stopped Us From Going Ka-Boom'?

_Okay, being famous kind of really sucks more than I thought it would,_ he decided, not knowing if this pretty girl was displaying that she was attracted to him or that she was star-struck. Which probably explained why he felt more vaguely embarrassed for her than interested in the answer.

"Can I get you anything else?" she asked, screwing up enough courage to look directly at Jim when she spoke.

"No," Spock answered her curtly. She gave a little jump of surprise, clearly not having expected him to speak.

"We're fine," Jim assured her in a more friendly manner, feeling sort of bad. After all, he'd dated plenty of girls like her even into his academy days, and his first officer's abruptness probably came across the wrong way.

She flashed him a grateful, half-ways flirty smile, and then with one last nervous glance at Spock made her retreat.

Jim looked down at his salad, which had been embellished with things like dried cranberries, nuts, and orange zest. Feeling another brief surge of disappointment he tucked in, and then noticed out of the corner of his eye that Spock was examining his own meal curiously. _I don't think cranberries are programmed into the Enterprise's replicators,_ he realized when his first officer managed to deftly spear one onto his fork and examined it. After a moment, Spock placed it into his mouth, and Jim watched his eyes while he examined the alien flavours.

"Fascinating," his first officer said after a moment. "They are dehydrated cranberries."

Jim blinked in surprised. "Yeah," he agreed. "How'd you know?"

Spock was still considering his plate as he answered. "When I was younger my mother once prepared a traditional Earth feast for us while my father's duties as ambassador had him called away for an extended period of time. Though she lamented her inability to obtain several ingredients, including a poultry-based meat product, one of the dishes she prepared contained these berries. In that instance they had been modified into a gelatinous form. However, the flavours are similar enough to be recognizable," he explained.

Jim shared a glance with his mother.

"Do you like cranberry jelly, Spock?" she asked, even as he began to methodically devour his salad.

"Vulcans do not express dietary preferences beyond nutritional and ethical concerns," he answered automatically. Jim wondered which one of those two categories was prompting his first officer to pick out and eat all of the cranberries first. _Note to self – have the replicators updated before we leave space dock, _he thought. After all, he could admit, they didn't taste half bad. There really wasn't any reason why they shouldn't have them.

While his mother peppered Spock with questions on what food actually _was_ like on Vulcan, Jim found himself pulling out of his sullen mood, and stopped inwardly complaining about his meal. He was about halfway through his plate when a shadow fell over his shoulders, and his mother stopped talking. A very apprehensive expression came over her face. Jim looked up.

"I couldn't believe it when Caroline said you were here," rumbled a voice which he would have been quite happy to never hear again in his life. "But I guess you figured you could just show up now that everybody seems to think you're some kind of hero."

"Stanley!" Caroline's voice snapped from somewhere behind them. Jim didn't turn to look – he was keeping his gaze locked on the gruff, boxy man currently leaning against the back of their booth. "I told you not to do this – come on," the hostess insisted, and her hand closed around her brother's forearm. He promptly shrugged her off.

"Well?" Stanley demanded, and Jim felt a familiar, dark twist in his gut – loathing. Huh. It'd been awhile since he'd felt that. Not since Nero.

"Piss off, Stan," he replied, his mouth working faster than his brain. He wasn't _quite_ expecting the fist which came down on him. Stanley had never hit him before, but then again, Jim had still been a kid the last time they'd crossed paths. A smart-mouthed, rebellious, irritating as hell kid, but still a kid. So even though there'd been more than a few times when he was sure the guy wanted to haul off and smash his face in, he'd always held back.

Apparently, having a mouthy _adult_ version of Jim was just too tempting a target.

The blow was awkward, forced by the nature of their positions to twist at an odd angle and coming down more at the side of his neck than anyplace else. Stan's fist curled in the fabric of his shirt. At the other side of his booth his mother voiced a sharp protest, slamming her hands down against the table. Jim reeled as far back as he could, getting ready to retaliate – but it was Spock who grabbed the man's arm.

Stan's fist was still clenching Jim's collar, his intent clearly to yank him out of the booth so that he could land a better hit on him. Spock's own narrow grip had closed around his wrist, however, and judging by the slow shift in the colour of Stan's hand, he was holding him quite tightly.

"Assaulting a Federation captain is not a marginal offence. The most intelligent course of action would be to desist in this venture," the half-Vulcan informed him coolly.

"Back off, Stanley. He didn't start anything," his mother added, clearly quite angry.

"Yeah, Stan," Jim couldn't resist throwing in, his tone just a touch obnoxious. "Piss. Off."

The man looked like he wanted nothing more than to hit him again. But Spock was still cutting off circulation to his wrist, and the entire restaurant had gone tense and quiet. Caroline looked mortified. So, after a few seconds, his fingers released their grip on Jim's collar. Spock let him go and Stan yanked his hand away, rubbing it back and forth in clear agitation.

"So you're a bigshot captain now. You still owe me a fucking car, you little shit," he spat. "Everybody else might have forgotten what a pain in the ass you really-"

"Oh, dammit, Stanley, shut up!" Caroline suddenly broke in, her hand whipping out and snapping against the back of the volatile man's skull. He looked vaguely stunned. "We all thought it was funny as hell when he ran your stupid car over that cliff. Now get over it!" That said, she re-fastened her grip around her brother's arm, and began to bodily haul him from their table.

For a moment it looked like Stan was going to shrug her away again. But he was stunned into compliance for the second time when, in the restaurant around them, a brief smattering of applause broke out. Jim looked at his fellow patrons, all of whom seemed largely disapproving of Stan. Despite his unfamiliarity with this kind of attention, and the awkwardness which still came with it, it felt… good. He rubbed his bruised neck and sent Spock a grin which was equal parts embarrassed and pleased. But his first officer was still focused on watching Caroline and Stanley.

"_Damn, Caroline-"_ he heard Stan's voice trailing off as the man disappeared into a back room, his comments cut off by another smack to the back of his head. This earned a soft current of laughter from the rest of the room as the door shut behind the pair.

"Jerk!" someone called afterwards, earning a few more laughs. After a minute or two, though, when it appeared that the show was over, the restaurant settled down again.

"A most angry man," Spock observed, turning back towards Jim once more.

"I don't know what I ever saw in him," his mother agreed, before she turned to fix him with a _look_. "But still, Jimmy, you shouldn't have provoked him like that. I mean, there are kids in the restaurant, and you know full well that he's always wanted to haul off and belt you one." She looked agitated and a little oddly self-deprecating as she chided him.

"Any individual requiring such meager provocation to commit violent acts would likely have found justification for them whether or not it was freely provided," Spock pointed out. Jim looked over at him, the positive feelings he'd gotten from the support of the restaurant increasing tenfold at this subtle bit of support. "I cannot help but profess curiosity, however, as to the source of his rage. A cliff?" he asked.

_Oh, shit,_ Jim thought. He generally preferred to keep that story quiet. It was not, he considered, his finest hour, even when one _didn't_ know all of the gritty details. And only Jim himself really understood those.

"Just something stupid I did when I was a kid," he answered quickly, cutting off any response his mother might offer and trying to put as much 'don't talk about it' into his tone as possible. Spock looked, if anything, even _more_ curious at his response – but he thankfully held his tongue.

The rest of the meal passed in a somewhat uneasy silence. Jim ate quickly, growing tired once more of the looks from the other patrons. Some of the adults seemed to be debating coming over now. He wanted to leave before that happened – he didn't know what he'd say to them, or what kinds of questions they might ask. Unfortunately, just as they were about to go, a middle-aged man plucked made his decision and came towards them.

"Look," he said, and Jim shifted a little bit, uncomfortable. "I think I speak for all of us when I say that we're really grateful for what you did for everybody. And we're _damn_ proud that the captain who saved Earth came from our hometown."

There was a brief murmur of agreement from those sitting close enough to hear. All eyes were on them, waiting for a response. Jim's brain sent several up for evaluation. Some, like 'well, that's ironic, because I've always hated this place' just didn't seem terribly appropriate, even though he was itching to just blurt them out.

"…Thanks," he instead settled for after a minute. It could have been his imagination, but he thought that the man – and the other patrons – looked disappointed. Defensiveness rose up in him. Well, what were they expecting? A speech? He could do that, but he'd probably just look like an insincere _ass_ while he did. For some reason a certain quality of sarcasm always slipped into his demeanor when he pretended at confidence. _Real_ confidence was another story, but he wasn't going to find any of it here.

So instead he just gave an internal shrug, and on that singularly un-epic parting note, hurried from the restaurant. Spock, to his quiet relief, walked directly beside him until they were out into the open air of the parking lot. His mother said something he didn't quite catch to the man who'd approached them before she, too, followed them out.

"Well, that was awkward," he said, moving a few quick steps away from the building, as if he expected some of its multitude of discomforts to seep through the doorframe.

"You have not been commonly agitated by public displays in the past," Spock pointed out. The way he spoke made it sound like a question. Jim shrugged.

"I guess it depends on the display," he reasoned.

But even though he tried to re-establish the lighter mood they'd had between them before Stan's appearance, it looked to have died. His mother was bothered by the whole thing, her expression agitated when she emerged from the restaurant, and that in turn made Jim extremely uncomfortable. Earlier, after they'd finished painting the fence, he'd thought she would try and talk him into staying at least another night. But now she seemed to have decided the better of it. So, instead, they went back to the house briefly to retrieve their bags, and then she drove them – as promised – to the transport station.

"It was good to see you, Jimmy," she told him, wrapping him up in a tight smile and an awkward hug.

"Yeah. It was nice for me, too, Mom," he replied, and in a lot of ways, it had been. Sometimes it was easy to forget that he could have fun with her and enjoy her company. Easy to lose sight of the aspects he liked when he focused on the ones he didn't. But, still, he was kind of relieved that visiting hours were over now.

"Spock," his mother said with a tone of almost mock-formality, looking towards his first officer. "I'd ask you to keep him out of trouble, but I know that's impossible. So instead I'll just say that the next time he visits I want to see you again."

Spock looked a little surprised. Though, when he spoke, his voice had its usual, neutral tones. "I shall endeavor to oblige your request," he replied politely.

"You'll be the first 'guest' Jimmy's ever brought home twice if you do," she informed him.

"Interesting."

"Yeah, yeah, okay," Jim said, breaking in before his mother and first officer started evaluating his social behavior while he was standing right there. "That's enough of you two talking to each other. We've got a shuttle to catch." Forgetting himself for a moment, he grasped Spock's forearm and gave it a gentle tug in the direction of the station. Realizing his mistake only a second too late, he then quickly let go.

"Drop me a line tomorrow, Jimmy," his mother instructed.

Still embarrassed at his social misstep, Jim just nodded and tossed her a wave before he and Spock headed off. He never even saw the speculative look which his first officer gave his arm, where the material of the jacket had been rumpled by contact.

He also had absolutely no chance at seeing his mother cross her fingers behind her back.

---

**Author's Note:** Everybody say goodbye to Momma Kirk, as this is the end of her substantial contributions to the story!

Thanks to all of you reviewers. The suggestions were a lot of fun, and several of them actually prompted me to rewrite some scenes in this chapter which I wasn't happy with. So you all have my great appreciation!


	4. Chapter 4

He'd been so relieved to escape the crush of recognition and attention at the restaurant that he hadn't considered getting recognized on the shuttle. When he and Spock had been hopping transports to get to Riverside they hadn't earned much notice. But then, those had been short trips, with passengers coming and going at different stops all of the time and plenty of distractions to keep anyone from paying too much mind to their fellow commuters. The fast shuttles which ran to places like the Canadian or Mexican borders, or Alaska, were a different creature altogether. Their ride was a couple of hours, and with an airy, non-military seating design meant to make passengers feel at ease, there was plenty of opportunity to look around and take it all in.

He stiffened a little bit when the murmuring began, noticing a few people sending him covert glances and whispering to one another.

_James Kirk? Oh, THAT guy? Yeah, no, he's not me. I __**have**__ been told that I look like him, though. People say it's the mouth,_ he thought to himself in an almost desperate manner. His focus was so inward that he missed what Spock said the first time around.

"Hmm?" he asked. Spock looked completely unruffled, and if Jim didn't know about his observational skills, he'd think that the man didn't have a clue what was going on around them.

"I said, do you have any knowledge regarding the specifications of the engines used in these 'fast shuttles'? I am less familiar with terrestrial vessels than space-faring constructions," Spock repeated patiently.

"Oh," Jim said, and then thought for a moment. He liked to tinker. It wasn't by any means the Scotty-level of mechanical obsession, but he could hold his own in an engineering simulation. Before he'd joined Starfleet, taking vehicles apart (in ways less dramatic than some) had been one of his _more _legitimate hobbies. So in truth, he actually _did_ have quite a bit of knowledge about 'terrestrial vessels'. "Engines, huh? Well, on a model like this I'd say…"

Spock listened attentively and asked questions at all the appropriate intervals as Jim described first the engines of their shuttle, then its likely operating systems, and then moved on to other vehicles he was acquainted with. He went into great detail about the bike he'd given up when he joined Starfleet – his pet project for nearly two years prior to that. It was a tricky thing to scrape up some of the information from his brain, given how long it had been since he'd used a lot of it. Space-faring technology was, by necessity, very different from the earth-bound kind. All complications presented by space itself aside, a starship could go much, _much_ faster than was advisable for a vehicle seeing regular planetary use. Space was kind of like a big open field – a lone person could run fast and hard across the floor because there was very little to crash into, and if something was coming, you were almost definitely going to see it. If the field became cluttered then it was _hell_ for a starship. But earthbound vehicles required much less speed and much more maneuverability, because a planet was full of obstacles. Buildings, mountains, other people, other vehicles… then there were emissions to consider. On a planet an engine needed to run as cleanly as it could, but in space there was a little more leeway with radiation and other unpleasant backlash. Soon enough the conversation progressed into a dissection of the differences in Starfleet technology versus Terran technology, with Spock offering his uniquely Vulcan perspective in quiet, even tones. The conversation was almost hypnotic.

Jim was so engrossed in his thoughts that he didn't notice if anyone else was listening in, or watching them. He had no idea that he was surprising the hell out of Spock, who hadn't expected his captain's knowledge of terrestrial vehicles to be either as thorough or as insightful as it actually was.

"Fascinating," Spock declared at last, when they had veered off onto the topic of space-faring shuttlecraft and the inherent complications to their design. "I was not aware that you were so well-versed in this subject."

Jim grinned, and actually had to resist the urge to preen a little. "Well, I actually _did_ pass all of my aptitude tests, you know," he pointed out almost teasingly, well aware that Spock himself had gone _over_ those same aptitude tests before the _Kobayashi Maru_ hearing. His first officer had admitted as much to his face during the decidedly tense, early weeks of their command together, while they were still setting the ground rules for their working relationship.

Their easy banter came to an end, however, when a low tone sounded and a computerized voice announced that they should disembark. Amidst the shuffle of movement which resulted as passengers moved comply Jim noticed, again, a few lingering and speculative gazes. But he forced himself to ignore it, realizing that it didn't bother him so much if he could put his focus elsewhere.

Luckily, he had a very interesting half-Vulcan to oblige him in this.

They boarded a few of the slower shuttles en-route to Toronto, their conversation still light but engaging and thoroughly distracting. Jim found himself laughing out loud a few times, pulled in by Spock's subtle sense of humour. It could have felt awkward to laugh alone. But it didn't, not really, because Spock's eyes betrayed him quite wickedly when he was amused, and so Jim knew he wasn't really the _only_ one enjoying himself.

By the time they arrived at the city he was relaxed and cheerful, apprehensions momentarily abandoned in Riverside and the potential for exploration opening up before them. Their first order of business was to arrange for sleeping quarters at some travelers' facilities. After that, however, they hit something of an impasse.

_I guess now I know why people tend to actually __**plan**__ their vacations,_ Jim thought, as he and Spock considered where they should go next. Toronto was an interesting city. He wasn't sure how his first officer saw it, but for Jim, it was kind of engaging to see a place which was so close to home, and yet also distinctly unique. Earth had a lot of on-world variety, just going off of the standards set by other sentient cultures. There was a mingled sense of unity and uniqueness which had taken centuries to build up and maintain. The skyline which sprawled and stretched from beyond the window of their lodgings was decorated with buildings in many strange and fascinating shapes, a testament to the city's taste for creative architecture. Spots of green and brown and pale-coloured flowers lined the streets where tiny, well-kept gardens added a much-needed sense of nature to the urban stretch, the sprawling roots of trees lined with blooms and contrasting the metallic glint of the high-rises.

Briefly, it occurred to Jim that someone like Spock might very well have fared better if he'd been given precedence to his human side, rather than his Vulcan. Vulcans, by their nature, were required to present a very set image. They all had one ideal concept of behavior, conduct, and mannerism to which they were supposed to aspire. But humans sought (even if they didn't always achieve it) to unite their contrasting and separate qualities while still preserving them. For a being with Spock's natural duality, that might have been useful.

He looked over at the half-Vulcan occupying his thoughts, and noted that Spock, too, was examining their view of the city with interest. Jim wondered if he was thinking along any of the same lines.

"So," he said, folding his arms and leaning to rest against the durable material of the window. "Any thoughts on what we should do now?"

Spock considered this for a moment. "I must confess that I had not anticipated being presented with the opportunity to examine my mother's birth place so suddenly. My familiarity with the city is far too limited to provide me with any insights on how to proceed."

He couldn't help the snort which he produced in response to that. "Or in other words, 'gee, you know, getting dragged sight-seeing by my captain wasn't really part of my original itinerary'?"

Up went one of those peculiar eyebrows, but that couldn't quite mask the flicker of amusement in the eye below it. "I believe the saying goes – 'you said it, not me'," Spock replied tonelessly. Jim snorted again, but then a grin about a mile wide spread across his face, and he had to resist the urge to just grab Spock and pull him out to wander around aimlessly beside him. He had a feeling that if they did that then they'd probably come across something worthwhile sooner or later, but he didn't want to monopolize their time here. Spock had been a really good sport about putting up with his mother. Now it was his turn.

"Well…" he considered. "You said your mother only had distant family here. Do you think they'd be interested in meeting you anyway?" _Especially now that you're a big-shot hero who helped save the entire planet?_ he added mentally.

Spock gave the Vulcan equivalent of a frown, the faintest down-turning of his lips. "I do not know," he admitted. "My knowledge of them is, as I said, highly limited."

Jim considered this, scuffing one shoe lightly against the carpet fibers beneath him while he thought. "Do you have any contact information for them?" he asked at length, shifting so that his back rested against the window, but his head was still facing his first officer. "We could just drop them a line and let them know you're in town. Then they can decide if they want to meet you or something."

Slowly, Spock gave one of his economical, small nods. "My father sent them a transmission to inform them of my mother's demise. I can recall the information from it," he said, and then moved towards the lodgings' computer console. Jim followed, standing behind Spock's shoulder as his fingers moved deftly across the touch-pad, and then – paused. Indecision reigned momentarily. What to say? But after a few seconds the human moment passed, and he watched as Spock voiced a very formal, brief, clinical message.

_Damn,_ Jim thought. _They're going to think he's some kind of android or something._ But he kept this to himself, hearing, as he did, a kind of edgy self-consciousness in the utterly unsentimental words. An instant later the message was sent.

"Alright," Jim said at length, as Spock seemed to have retreated inwardly somewhat. "There's got to be a tourist center around here somewhere…"

As it turned out, there was. The gal who manned the information booth and downloaded several destinations into Jim's datapad had one of those bubble-gum pink smiles, and kept making eyes at Spock, who was either oblivious to her attention or was doing a very good job of pretending to be. Jim couldn't help but wonder – was he ignoring her because he was Vulcan, because of something to do with Uhura, or because she just flat-out wasn't his type?

Well, whatever the reason, the encounter didn't seem terribly important once they'd gotten their information and set out to, as Jim phrased it, 'play tourist'. After getting a few more recognizing glances on the street, he dragged Spock into a nearby clothing outfitter, and went with the old celebrity-disguise standard of putting on a pair of sunglasses. Figuring that Spock was more recognizable than he was (honestly, why were people looking at _him_, when he wasn't even the tall one with pointy ears?) he advised his first officer to similarly disguise himself.

He nearly died when he saw Spock wearing a white knit-cap which neatly covered the tips of his ears and the upswing of his eyebrows.

"Is something amusing, Jim?" Spock asked as he tried to force his sense of humour to behave itself.

"No, nope, nothing," he denied. Spock gave him a look which managed to convey that he was thinking very exasperated thoughts about the human species in general now. But he kept those thoughts to himself as they wandered through the city, hopping transports here and there and examining landmarks which Spock's mother would have grown up surrounded by. When his first officer mentioned that his mother was a teacher, they managed to hunt down the school which she'd worked at before she met Sarek. Spock only mentioned once that such an endeavor was illogical, and the protest seemed more token than anything else. Jim decided to play the human card and get obstinate about it.

_Yes, Spock. Illogical human me, __**I**__ want to see the school where your mother worked_, he thought to himself, amused at his own attempts to be 'manipulative'. The school was just a normal building, and held no real interest for him. But he was having a wicked amount of fun with Spock. _I should start taking him on more away missions when we get back to the ship,_ he considered. Before he'd tended to leave his first officer behind, in command of the _Enterprise_. Slowly, however, he was starting to think that as reasonable as that was from a command perspective, from a personal one he was missing out. Spock was a scientist by trade, but an explorer by nature. He asked questions which Jim would never think to, and noticed details which escaped his eye.

It was starting to look like this might be the best vacation he'd ever been on, and so far it hadn't involved any death-defying stunts, beautiful, scantily clad girls, brawling, or alcohol. Just a lot of wandering around with Spock, and visiting his mother. _I never would have called that one,_ he thought, wondering what to make of it.

Eventually their wandering brought them to the city's waterfront, where the newly-repaired CN Tower lanced upwards into the sky – a unique, antiquated architectural feature nestled among many. They considered going up to it, but for whatever reason the tranquility of the water and the refreshing bite of open air dissuaded them.

"I cannot help but wonder if she ever 'played tourist' here," Spock confessed as Jim watched a few birds circle lazily above them. His voice was quiet enough, the words hesitant enough, that it was almost as if he hadn't even meant to speak.

Jim thought about it for a while. "She was a teacher, right?" he said at length, slipping his hands into his pockets. "So I bet she did. She probably had to take her students on field trips all around the city." He could remember the trips he himself had taken when he'd been in elementary school, learning about Earth's culture and history. Though he vehemently denied it when asked, he'd loved them – part of him was still quietly intrigued by humanity's past. Starfleet had been such a tense point of contention in his house. The source of both pride and suffering. So, the idea of a time when exploration and adventure could be had without ever having to leave Earth was a compelling fantasy.

It was also an extremely intellectual, _geeky_ fantasy, and he'd learned the hard way that allowing people insights to those qualities in himself was an invitation to mockery and criticism. So he was a little surprised at how compelled he felt to admit his interest to Spock.

"I loved those kinds of trips when I was in school," he blurted out into the contemplative silence which had settled between them. Oh, _goddamn motherfucking hell!_ It was like Spock emitted some weird frequency wave which jammed the connector between his brain and his mouth. He ducked his head in momentary embarrassment, but all his first officer did was glance towards him and say, evenly, "Indeed?"

Jim cleared his throat. "Uh, yeah," he confirmed. "Well, I mean it was interesting, you know? Getting out of the classroom and… er…" His voice trailed off as he struggled for a way to elaborate without making an idiot of himself.

"And obtaining first-hand insights to various subjects?" Spock supplied.

He snapped his fingers. "That's a good way of putting it. Yup, pretty much," he agreed.

Dark eyes glanced, assessing, in his direction. "I, too, found myself to be more suited to the rare occasions in which I was permitted exploration beyond the realm of computerized learning."

The revelation surprised Jim. "Really?" he asked. "But you're good with computers." He would know. The _Kobayashi Maru_ had not been an easy system to hack into.

Spock inclined his head. "True. My proficiency is exceptional. However, it is but one of many skills which I possess."

Jim snorted, and then laughed outright at this declaration. "And you're humble, too, huh?" he noted.

"Given that humility is technically defined as an awareness of one's own limitations, weaknesses, and social standing free of pride or exaggeration, and Vulcans do not exaggerate, your insight would be accurate."

He grinned at Spock, incredibly amused by his play at arrogance, and the subtle change to feigned ignorance and innocence which his expression had adopted. For an instant, then, the clouds shifted overhead, freeing the lingering sun from their shadows. The changed lighting momentarily placed the half-Vulcan's features into sharp contrast – the line of his ear trailing down the curve of his skull, the angle of his nose and elegant brows highlighted while his eyes shone with suppressed amusement.

For one moment, all of the breath vanished from his lungs, and his mouth went dry. The shape of Spock robbed him of all conscious thought.

It was brief, so momentary that an instant later it was gone, and normalcy returned with such swift completion that it was as if nothing had happened. Jim carried on grinning. Their conversation moved forward. But the impression remained, a lingering image of light and shadow holding all the same mysterious promise as space. He wasn't certain what to do with it just then, and so, instead, he put it aside, tucked away in a quiet corner of his mind.

When the last of the day trailed into darkness they finally agreed to hunt down a restaurant and eat, before heading back to their lodgings to see if there was any word from Spock's extended family. It could have been his imagination, but Jim thought that it almost seemed like his friend was procrastinating, trying to put off their return. Of course, he knew enough to expect that asking would only yield a response to the tune of 'Vulcans don't get nervous'.

He asked anyway.

"Nervousness is a human quality," Spock replied, and Jim blinked. Reading between the lines, it was as good as an admission. _And I am half-human_, was the important part, again left unsaid like a secret between them.

"It sure as hell is," he agreed under his breath. Then, louder, he asked: "So what _do_ you know about them? Your family, I mean." He didn't want to come across as if he were trying to pry the guy's personal life open, but under the circumstances, the question probably wasn't inappropriate. Besides, at some point between that day and the one before it, his first officer had probably learned more about Jim's own family than anyone else on the ship.

Spock answered at first with only a subtle half-shrug, a gesture which surprised Jim in its informality. It seemed to have been an unconscious move. "My understanding of them is only basic. I know that my grandparents perished during a shuttle incident well before my birth. My grandmother's sister had two sons, one of whom re-located to a colony. I am uncertain of the specifics regarding his current location or motivations for leaving Earth. The other remained here, and it his family whom I contacted."

"Gotcha," Jim replied with a nod.

The temperature had dropped somewhat significantly by the time they made it back to the traveler's facilities. Jim had to say, after spending quite a bit of time in space, he'd become acquainted with the structures of many worlds designed to host shore-leave or house visitors, and Toronto's were pretty nice. The building was tall, with a dramatic, curved style to its structuring, and had as they already knew a good view of the city. It put him vaguely in mind of Starfleet's housing for cadets, simply because of the diversity of alien faces which could be found milling around it.

When they had made their way up to their allotted quarters, Jim glanced at Spock, and noticed an air of discomfort around him. While his friend moved to the computer console, he made his way over to the environmental control systems, and raised the room's temperature. He wasn't really cold, and he was pretty sure that Spock's discomfort was more internal than external, but it couldn't hurt. Then he tossed his sunglasses – which had been placed into his pocket as soon as the sun disappeared – onto the nearest available surface, and dropped into one of the plain, grey chairs in the room. He and Spock seemed to be doing a lot of walking.

"So?" he asked, keeping his tone light as he looked inquisitively over at Spock, wondering what the verdict was on the whole 'extended family' issue.

His first officer was silent for a moment.

"There is no response," he said at last, and then closed down the computer and moved swiftly away from it. His long, narrow gate carried him steadily over to the window, which now showed the glittering lights of the city at night. Jim frowned.

"Maybe they're on a trip?" he suggested.

"It is irrelevant," Spock said abruptly. "Their connection to me is distant. Pursuing contact with them was illogical."

Jim didn't like the tone to Spock's voice. Somehow it managed to be… emptier than it usually was. The tone more toneless, the absence of inflection or emotion almost excessively pronounced. It was a strange observation. Kind of like asserting that there could be a darkness which was 'deeper than black'. But he knew that he wasn't imagining it. Something was up.

It didn't look like he was going to get a chance to find out _what_ was up, however, since over the course of the next half an hour, Spock completely shut down any attempts he made at wheedling it out of him. He was utterly cold and even a little harsh – shades of the early Spock, which Jim hadn't seen for quite some time.

"I require solitude," the half-Vulcan finally snapped after a failed attempt on his captain's part to make a joke, and then slipped into the small, separate section of the quarters which contained the two narrow beds. Before Jim could even reply the door had 'whooshed' shut behind his friend, and the lock had activated.

For a full minute Jim just sat there, wondering why it felt like someone had just jabbed at him with an ice-pick, and why the friendly, thoroughly engaging Spock of the last little while had run screaming for the hills.

He gave the computer console a suspicious glance. Then he looked back at the closed door, somehow damning in its smooth, unmarked surface.

_To hell with this_, he mentally swore before he marched over to the terminal and accessed it. As he expected, all messages had been deleted. But it only took him a minute to recover the files. If Spock had taken the time to completely wipe them, he wouldn't have had a chance, but apparently his first officer hadn't accounted for Jim's ability to see through his bullshit. Or just hadn't been in a fit state to account for much at all.

'Vulcans don't lie' was, in the opinion of anyone who had some familiarity with them, a very appropriate phrase, because it was exactly the kind of lie which Vulcans were apt to tell. Just like 'Vulcans don't have emotions'. Spock hadn't been telling the truth when he said there was no response from his relatives – even though that was probably the reality he would have preferred.

Jim felt his temper climbing up several notches as he read the snide, offensive, and downright _hateful_ content of this distant cousin's response. Words like 'freak' and 'unnatural' were bandied about with shocking frequency, an unpleasantly out-dated attitude of xenophobia and hatred dripping off of every letter. The reply was most emphatically not a welcome to stop by for a visit and maybe share some stories. It was an unprovoked and unnecessary denouncement of Spock, his mother, and Vulcans in general. After everything that had happened, after the death of an entire _planet full of people_, that someone with this kind of attitude could… could…

With undue force, Jim jabbed the command to delete the message again, and then all but sprang out of the terminal chair. He downloaded the family's address into his datapad and then slung his jacket over his shoulders, his motions sharp and forceful. With a brief rap against the closed door he told Spock in unconsciously tense tones that he was going out for a walk.

He was still seeing red when he boarded the transport shuttle to the as-yet-unvisited part of the city. Some of his temper must have been showing, since people gave him a wide birth, but he didn't even notice them. His right hand stayed clenched, white-knuckled, at his side.

Before he'd joined Starfleet Jim had never seen a Vulcan in person before. The only one he'd ever gotten to know personally was Spock, who was also half human. But all those deaths, and all of that destruction which they had suffered still haunted his nightmares from time to time. He could remember the drill, and the sight of the device dropping past himself and Sulu – headed straight for the planet's core. Billions of people had died because he hadn't been able to stop it. Sometimes he thought, if he'd shot it with his phaser, or somehow seen it coming sooner… he _knew_ it was useless. He knew it. It was just the kind of oppressive, helpless guilt which all of the Starfleet counselors warned them they would face. In the wake of a terrible disaster, it was only human to go over everything you could have done to prevent it, and to wonder if it was somehow your fault.

He didn't carry around the burden of Vulcan's death the way that Spock did, because it hadn't been _his_ home. So if the contents of that message had struck a nerve in _him_, he could only imagine what it was like for his first officer. Especially given that these people were actually, physically related to him. Were supposed to be family to him.

He wanted to put his fist through something. He wanted to tear something apart. The words _'how dare they'_ kept turning over in his mind, a denial and an accusation in one - and the tamest of comments his thoughts were producing.

All told it took him about an hour and a half to reach his destination, making his way through the meticulously organized streets, his datapad shoved into his pocket and only briefly consulted for directions. It informed him that it was just after seven p.m. when he worked his way through layers of residential housing to find the place, nestled neatly and quietly into a row of simple, innocuous homes. A cherry tree was blooming in the front garden. He double-checked the address, confirmed it.

And then he stopped. Because he wasn't sure what to do now.

His temper and outrage had carried him all of the way there. But now the complexity of the decision before him gave him pause. The strongest urge was to just march up the front steps and pound on the door until he could identify the right person to punch the living _shit_ out of. Then he would progress to Stage 2 – actually punching the living shit out of them. But he pushed back that impulse. He wasn't, and had never really been, the kind of person who enjoyed inflicting pain. Oh, he liked to fight, but that was a little different, and he always let his opponents start it. He was a defender, not an assailant. The same defensive instincts which had caused him enough sheer physical anger to bring him here were causing him conflict now.

Well. Even if he didn't actually follow through with the temptation to commit perfectly justified acts of violence, he could still give the bastard a verbal lashing that would make his head spin. And who knew? Maybe _he'd_ throw the first punch, and Jim would run out of reasons to hold back.

He walked up the neat little concrete path to the door. Inside of the home, the lights were on.

The sound of a child laughing made him hesitate again.

Okay, so, there were kids inside. All the more reason to be upset – presumably the adults of the household would be passing on their incredibly offensive philosophies to another generation now. Maybe they played rousing games of 'let's sit around and insult the alien race who just suffered the loss of their homeworld'.

He raised his hand, prepared to either knock or hit the buzzer. But the motion never completed itself. For a long, internally tense moment he just stood there, a jumbled mix of emotions. None of them good.

Then he turned on his heel and walked away, his feet carrying him from the sickening glow of the house, from the all-too 'homey' drift of noises produced by its occupants. He made his way to the end of the block, where a small play-park had been set up, surrounded on most sides by a waist-high stone wall. A simple little oasis for the neighborhood children. He rested his elbows against it and sunk his face into his hands, taking in a few deep, even breaths. Then he turned his gaze upwards, to the distant pinpricks of stars blinking above him.

_What the hell are you doing, Jim?_ he asked himself, although somewhere along the past few years his conscience had started to sound a lot like Bones. A cool breeze began to float around his head. The hard press of stone beneath his arms seeped through his jacket, but rather than pull away, he simply leaned further into it. The muscles in his jaw clenched and unclenched as he got a handle on his emotions.

The stars helped.

After a while, he started to think again – to focus past simply sorting through his feelings and let his brain do some real work. He wondered at the same time what had compelled such a strong reaction from him, and what had stopped him from carrying through with his impulsiveness. It wasn't like him to do things by halves.

He got angry. Bigotry always made him angry, so that wasn't surprising. He'd gotten _particularly_ enraged because of all the contributing factors – that the bigotry was against Vulcans, that the comments had been aimed at his friend. And he was pretty sure that Spock qualified for 'friend' status now, which had previously been making him _happy_. But one little incident seemed to have dumped ice water all over that easy camaraderie. So, he was pissed off about that, too.

Then why couldn't he just pound on that jackass's door and vent his frustrations?

He thought about it, and thought about it, and watched the stars as the air grew cold and heavy with night around him. It occurred to him after a long while that the transports might not be running anymore. _I'll have to walk back,_ he thought, and so thinking pushed away from the park wall at last, retrieving his datapad to see that he'd been outside for a good many hours indeed. And still, he was unsure of himself.

He passed by _that_ house again, footsteps slowing, taking in the dimmed lights and the stillness which had settled over it. Not too long ago he would have seized the opportunity. Maybe he might have vandalized the little vehicle sitting outside of it. He was still angry enough to.

So what had changed? Why did he _think_ about doing something, but stop himself now? Had he turned into some kind of coward?

He grinned humourlessly at himself. Not two weeks ago he'd been drifting out in space, with nothing between himself and certain death but an environmental suit, and he hadn't batted an eyelash at that. Becoming a captain hadn't suddenly turned him into some kind of indecisive weakling. If anything, it had made him _more_ decisive, forced him to commit to his ideas and stand by his decisions once he'd made them.

Realization hit him so sharply then that he stopped dead in his tracks. **That** was why he couldn't do it.

He was a Starfleet captain now. He was proud of himself, of that accomplishment – and breaking down the door of some civilian's house just because they'd pissed him off (really, _really_ pissed him off) was indecorous behavior for a captain.

He couldn't do it, because he was better than it now. He was better than people like _them_ now, and so was Spock.

Resolved and filled with a strangely refreshing kind of inner strength, Jim walked resolutely away from the house, not bothering to look back. So they had lashed out as his first officer. He'd actually do something to help Spock – he'd distract him, cheer him up (though that would take some trial and error, probably) and be a good friend. He'd make up for the _disappointing_ reaction of his living human relatives by making him forget all about it. Or, well, maybe not 'forget', what with his near-perfect memory and all, but as close as Vulcans got to that.

It was a good plan. Jim only hit a snag about an hour into his walking, when he realized that there had been one crucial misstep on his part so far as all of this was concerned. He was largely unfamiliar with this city. The directions in his datapad operated under the assumption that the public transport system would be running - they were crucially vague where pedestrians would be concerned.

And now he was lost.

---

**Author's Note:** 'Nother chapter done! Yay! I'm basically uploading these as I finish them, since I know from personal experience that it can be a pain to wait around for updates. Lots of questions came up about the story this time – but all I can say is that they're inching towards one another, and regardless of other factors, they're going to keep doing that until they run out of inches. Oh, and I don't have a beta. I proofread my updates myself before I upload them, but that's about it… which probably explains any grammatical errors or typos you come across. And now, I have a question for all you lovely and wonderful reviewers – in TOS, one of Kirk's big fears is being completely alone. I cannot for the life of me tell whether this is or isn't true for his 09 counterpart. Thoughts?

Oh yes, and before I forget (because it came up a few times) – Kirk still has his libido. So far a combination of his growing maturity and responsibility has kept it in check, however, and at the moment he's kind of intrigued by his own sense of self-control (as we've just seen). But I do have plans revolving around this, and they're gonna come up later.


	5. Chapter 5

It was official. Jim was an idiot.

He'd spent months on the _Enterprise_ now, and as little a comparative portion of his life as that was, he'd gotten used to the way things ran with frightening speed. On away missions to various planets, crewmembers were just a communicator's button away from contacting the ship. You didn't _get_ lost, even when you had zero familiarity with the world you were on, because there was an entire network of people keeping their eye on you. Getting home was just a matter of 'beam me up'. But the _Enterprise_ was in space-dock, its communications systems shut down and its crew on leave.

So what had Jim done? He'd gone running out into the night with nothing but the clothes on his back and a simple datapad capable of telling him the time, and reading him out information that had been programmed into it, and a whole lot of _nothing else_. Then he'd proceeded to head for a residential part of the city – a city he was largely unfamiliar with – and stayed out _thinking_ until well after the public transportation system had stopped running.

It was cold. It was dark. He wasn't even sure that he was headed in the right direction. All he needed now was for some giant monster to spring up out of the nearest patch of innocuous lawn and start chasing him down. You know, just to make extra sure that he was completely screwed over.

No monster turned up, but he did start to feel the press of the day weighing down on his shoulders. The streets were empty around him but for the dull constant of traffic – quiet family homes apparently producing no late-night wanderers. Or at least, none that he was lucky enough to happen across. The darkness wound unpleasantly through streets which had become disquietingly alien, and loathe as he was to admit it, Jim's heart was steadily moving up to his throat. One hour of wandering became two. He was starting to think about flagging someone down off of the road when a flash of lights caught his eye – not the normal, dull lights of the many houses he'd passed, but rather a more colourful spectrum.

He kept going, feeling an almost visceral relief when the oppressive crush of houses began to give way to a small commercial section. Many of the establishments were closed, but fortunately, the little cluster of buildings was playing host to a late-night bar. As he drew nearer he could hear the familiar sounds of conversation, the 'tink' of glasses and the sight of movement through the windows banishing some of the creeping fear which had started up his spine. He stepped inside, feeling like a man who'd just happened upon an oasis in the desert.

A few of the patrons looked up curiously at the opening door, but nobody seemed to recognize him. Doubly relieved, Jim made his way over to the bar, where a rather plain looking woman was serving drinks.

"What can I get you?" she asked, giving him a once-over.

"Directions," he replied with a smile, as he sank onto an available stool. At her blank look he decided to elaborate. "I missed the last shuttle. I need to get back into the main city, where the traveler's facilities are…" he produced his datapad and then called up the map of the general area he wanted to get _to_. Then he held it out for her inspection.

"I see your problem," she said agreeably, and with his permission took the datapad from his hands. "What happened? Your lady friend kick you out for misbehaving?"

Jim laughed a little humourlessly, sagging a bit against the bar and running a tired hand against the back of his head. "Close," he replied as the bartender programmed the directions he needed into his datapad. "I came out here looking for trouble. But then I decided I didn't really want any. It ate up a lot of time, though."

"Sounds like an interesting story," she noted, before handing him back the pad. He saluted her playfully with it in an appreciative gesture.

"It is," he agreed. "But I think I'll keep it to myself."

For whatever reason that seemed to make the woman smile, and she simply bid him goodnight as he turned around to leave, checking the datapad to see how far he'd have to go. It wasn't as bad as it could have been – at least he looked to have been moving in the right direction.

He should have remembered that in a bar setting, it's generally advisable to keep your eyes on where you're going. Even _if_ said bar is only occupied by humans, and therefore less likely to host a temperamental Andorian with an unusual fondness for punching people in the ribs. Although that _had_ been one of his more interesting bar fights – in a strictly within-fight context. Nothing had quite managed to beat the tussle with Starfleet cadets which had led to his encounter with Pike.

He knew he'd made a bad move, however, when his shoulder collided with something solid and unyielding in that sharp, uncomfortable manner which happens when you're propelling yourself earnestly and don't expect any obstructions. With a wince he staggered back a bit, raising a hand to clasp his now smarting shoulder. He looked up, an apology on the tip of his tongue… but never managed to spit it out.

The guy glowering down at him was big. Klingon big. And he did not look pleased.

"You should watch where you're going," he said, in _that_ tone. Jim let out an internal groan. Oh. Oh _come on_. A guy could spend days in a bar and not find anyone who was looking for a fight. So why was it that he could finally go into one – with absolutely zero intention of starting anything – and get handed trouble on a silver platter, when he specifically didn't want it?

He took the internal equivalent of a deep breath, and then flashed the guy an insincere smile. "You're right. Sorry," he agreed in his most placating tone of voice. _Even though you probably did that on purpose, you monkey-dumb fuck,_ he added to himself. Then he moved to walk away, hoping that the guy would take the hint and just leave him alone.

A meaty fist gripping his jacket quickly disabused him of that notion.

"I heard you at the bar," Mr. Gorilla said, attempting to sound quietly menacing and succeeding in sounding like he had a sore throat. "You said you came here looking for trouble. Now why would a guy come to our little friendly neck of the woods looking for _trouble?_"

"Ah," said Jim, realizing that though he was highly skilled at starting fights, he seemed to be woefully inept at stopping them. Especially in instances where he couldn't just pull rank. "See, you should have listened more carefully, because I also said that I changed my mind."

_Come on and hit me,_ a treacherous voice from his past inwardly goaded the man. _I still want to punch something!_

He did, too. But some guy in a bar – some guy easily twice his size – who had nothing to do with certain nasty messages sent to certain first officers was not a good target. Especially since Jim was tired through and through.

"You callin' me a bad listener?" the big man demanded, clearly spoiling for the opportunity to beat up some stranger. He'd probably run out of locals who weren't wise to his tricks yet.

_Don't laugh, don't laugh, don't laugh… even if that is the __**dumbest**__ fight-starter you've heard from a sober man, for the love of all that is good __**do not laugh**__._

Jim laughed.

_Ah, shit_.

He tried to duck the punch which came careening towards him, but only managed to get low enough for it to glance off of his forehead rather than impact his nose. Unpleasant lights blinked across his vision as he pulled out of his jacket – and thereby, the man's grip – and tried to get some distance between them. But his assailant quickly dropped the empty article of clothing and grasped the back of his shirt instead, yanking him sharply so that he crashed against the bar. Another blow was aimed at his head, but this time he successfully ducked it.

_Fine, you want a fight? I'll let off some steam,_ he thought angrily as he charged the guy's legs, attempting to throw him off-balance and topple him over. The lady bartender was shouting something at them, but he couldn't really hear her past the rush in his ears as he knocked his opponent onto a nearby table. His fist came down against the man's jaw with a familiar and satisfying _thw__ack_.

But his advantage was only brief. A hand closed around his jacket, yanking him forward as the big guy cracked his skull against his, causing Jim to see stars again. Painful stars. He reeled back when the blow was followed up with a punch to the cheek, and then a fist to gut. The adrenaline was pumping full-force as Jim staggered. He grabbed an empty beer mug off of the nearest table, and brought it sharply against the other man's skull when he moved forward to throw him around some more. Then he kicked out his knee and sent him back down to the ground.

His fallen adversary reached for a chair leg, grasped it, and then swung the seat at Jim's head. _Shit,_ Jim thought, wheeling backwards and then wincing when it came down and clipped his left hand. A flower of pain exploded at the contact. Reacting quickly, he closed his other hand around wire frame and then grappled for it a moment, before giving it a sharp shove which landed one of the legs against his opponent's solar plexus.

The fight continued on in a brutal contest between Jim's agility and creativity and the other man's sheer size advantage until the multi-coloured flicker of police lights filled the bar's windows, and both combatants seemed to pale.

For the umpteenth time Jim internally swore. He did _not_ want to spend the night in jail, dammit! That wasn't going to look good on his Starfleet record, and he'd been actively trying to keep that thing clean. Well, as clean as he could. A string of curse words trailed from his lips as he gave his attacker a glare that could have peeled paint. Not a moment later the door to the bar opened, and both of them were bodily dragged apart.

"I didn't start it," Jim protested almost tokenly. He knew the drill. _Nobody_ ever claimed to start these things, and so nine times out of ten, both or all participants were just tossed into detainment for the night.

He was unduly shocked when the bartender came to his defense.

"He's right, officer. He was only defending himself," she agreed. _Well, what do you know,_ Jim thought. _I guess not everyone in this part of the city is a complete ass._

As it turned out, not only was the bartender 'not a complete ass', she was also the owner of the building, and so with her backing him up only the other guy was dragged off to spend the night locked up. Jim was surprised and relieved when he was coaxed into sitting at the bar and given a replicated ice-pack to hold to his throbbing head. The woman chuckled at him.

"Well," she said. "You might not have wanted trouble, but it looks like you got it anyway."

"Happens all the time," he agreed around a lip which was beginning to swell. She shook her head.

"I'll bet. You look like the type for it," was her sound agreement, but he gave no reply except an uncomfortable groan. Trying to close his left hand was a bad idea. He had a bruise on it the size of an egg now – all sickly yellow except where the skin had split to reveal vibrant red.

"You should get to a hospital and have them fix you properly," the still-nameless woman noted. "Is there anyone I can call to come and pick you up?"

Jim hesitated, still leaning into the numbing cold of his ice pack, and found himself stumbling into uncertain ground. The only person he knew in the city was Spock. Spock couldn't come pick him up – he didn't have a vehicle, after all – but he was fairly certain that even if he was still in his distant, disconnected mood, his first officer would probably have noticed that he hadn't come back yet. What would he think? That Jim had gone off to get into a fight, as per his 'usual' behavior? That he'd found some nice girl to spend the night with in order to give him his requested solitude? Or that… that he'd gone off because, like his thrice-damned relatives, Jim just didn't want to be in his company?

He felt immediately conflicted. He didn't want Spock to know that he'd gotten into a fight. But, at the same time, he _also_ didn't want Spock to think that he was intentionally avoiding his company now. So the question was, which was he more prepared to injure – his first officer's opinion of _him_, or his first officer's perception of the reverse?

The answer managed to surprise him a little bit.

"Nobody can pick me up," he said at length. "But I should let someone know where I am."

"Alright," the bartender agreed, leading him to a computer console in the back. "But I don't think you should be walking anywhere alone as you are. You're sure there's nobody to come and get you?"

Jim waved off her concern. "I'll be fine," he insisted. In truth he was more than a little daunted at the prospect of making his way through an unfamiliar city at night while he looked like he'd just tried to pin a bow onto a bear, but there wasn't a lot for it.

With a great deal of apprehension he sent a call in to the lodgings and Spock were set up in. The console only beeped twice before the familiar, stern visage of his first officer blipped into existence on the screen across from him.

Spock's eyes flickered up and down as he took in Jim's state. One of the muscles in his jaw tightened. "Where are you?" he asked promptly, before Jim could even open his mouth to speak. He took a breath, wondering if he was imagining the undercurrent of anger in those stark, neutral tones.

"It's not important," he said tiredly. But through the screen he could see Spock's fingers working against the console with intent speed. "What are you doing?" he asked, confused.

"I am tracking this signal to its source location," Spock replied bluntly. "Remain where you are. I will retrieve you."

"Spock, I-" Jim began, but his voice cut off when he was suddenly fixed with a dark look.

"Clearly, your decision-making skills have been compromised. You will remain at your current location, and I will retrieve you," he was informed in a tone which brooked no argument. Then the transmission cut, and he was left staring in silent perplexity at a blank screen. He was only drawn out of his stillness at the sound of a low whistle from behind him.

"He's a barrel of sunshine, isn't he?" the bartender noted. Jim bristled.

"It's a cultural thing," he said defensively. Seeing the look on his face, she raised her hands in a placating gesture.

"Jeez, sure, cultural. Whatever you say," she agreed. Feeling a little embarrassed at the intensity of his own reaction, Jim retracted his glare. He slumped against the console desk and wondered if he had a concussion. You weren't supposed to sleep when you had one of those. But he was very tired.

Then again, this probably wasn't the best place to take a nap.

"I take it you're gonna wait for him, then?" the bartender asked. Jim replied via a kind of flailing shrug.

"Looks like it," he agreed. But even though his tone was vaguely exasperated, he found that he actually felt a little bit relieved that Spock had given him no choice in the matter. He was coming to get him and that was that, and Jim could leave, but if he did then it still wouldn't change the fact that Spock was on his way, so he might as well just wait. It was the only _logical_ course of action.

He smiled a little at himself, and then winced when the expression pulled unpleasantly against the muscles of his face. The bartender left to go and straighten up the mess which had been made during the fight.

After several minutes had passed he began to feel a little guilty, and so moved over to try and help, righting knocked-over furniture and salvaging unbroken items. Most of the bar's other occupants had cleared out by the time the police showed up, so the place was quiet save for the fuzzy lull of ambient music. He tried to make light conversation, but gave it up as a lost cause when his focus kept drifting towards his physical grievances. Moving around didn't seem to be the best idea.

It was as he bent down to retrieve a fallen bottle that he swayed dangerously on his feet, and his personal grip on his own balance decided to abandon him. He'd just resigned himself to his fate of making unpleasant contact with the floor when an arm closed around his shoulders and steadied him. Jim turned his head, surprised, to find himself face-to-face with Spock.

The warm grip released him once he was rightly on his feet again.

_That was fast,_ Jim thought, wondering how his first officer had managed to arrive so quickly. Spock's assessing gaze took in his state, then the bar, and then his state again as he seemed to quickly catalogue his visible injuries.

"Jim. What did you do?" he asked.

Balking at the idea of being scolded like a miscreant child, Jim recoiled. "_Nothing,_" he insisted. Spock raised a frankly skeptical eyebrow at this assertion. "I was just minding my own business. I actually was! It's not bullshit this time!"

"He's telling the truth," the bartender piped up, turning several stools over onto the bar as she seemed to have decided to close up. It made sense, with the vast majority of her patrons now gone. "Like I said to the police, it wasn't him…"

Jim listened with half an ear as the helpful woman apprised Spock of the fight. He tried to figure out what was going on in that half-Vulcan mind, but Spock remained stiff and unreadable, even by his already considerable standards. Jim narrowed his eye a little as he took in the sight, considering. _He's upset,_ he concluded. That was why he was so utterly closed off – he was suppressing the hell out of his emotions, because they were starting to get to him. Spock, he decided, conveyed as much in what he _didn't_ show as what he _did_.

"If that is the case, then we should be on our way. You require medical attention," Spock said afterwards, inclining his head briefly towards the bartender before, to Jim's surprise, he closed a hand around his upper arm and firmly escorted him from the bar.

"Thanks for the help!" Jim called back to the owner, his skin tingling beneath the uncommon warmth of his first officer's palm. It was contrasted sharply by the cold night air that hit him when the door was opened, and they were freed from the relative comfort of environmental systems. He wondered what time it was now. Well past midnight, at least.

Spock was still holding his arm when he tugged him in the direction of a small black car, hovering idly over the pavement.

"Where'd you get this?" Jim asked, when it became clear that _this _was the answer to the question of how Spock had arrived so swiftly.

The half-Vulcan kept his gaze fixed firmly ahead of himself. "Fortunately, one of the current residents of the traveler's facilities we are lodged at is a Tellarite ambassador who is greatly indebted to my father. I was able to obtain use of this vehicle from him," Spock replied before pulling the door open for him. Jim bristled a bit.

"I'm not an _invalid_," he complained, but at his first officer's stony expression, slid onto the passenger seat. He wondered where Spock had learned to drive as his friend got in behind the wheel. Not that it was terribly complicated – the simplicity of use for modern vehicles tended to increase along with their technological advancements. Jim gave an internal shrug, and figured it could very well be that Spock had just figured it out on his own. He was smart enough to, and it would explain the drivers' instruction manual which was currently open on the car's small computer screen.

The engine started. "Look, Spock," he began, purposefully avoiding eye-contact so that he wouldn't have to deal with those carefully blank eyes. "I don't _really_ need 'medical attention'. This is nothing – trust me."

"Even minor injuries can cause significant trauma if left untreated. Do not be illogical," Spock replied, pulling the car smoothly out of the little commercial strip's parking lot and out into the road.

"But it's really-"

"Protesting against this decision will accomplish nothing. As we are on leave, your rank as captain will not be able to override my judgment, and this vehicle is under my control. It is my decision that it shall be driven to a medical facility," he was sternly informed. "It should be obvious that your energies would be better devoted to explaining why you saw fit to travel into this part of the city, and what, precisely, you have been doing all night."

Alright. Now Jim was getting annoyed. Why was it any of Spock's business what he did or where he went? Like the guy said, they weren't on the _Enterprise_. This was his vacation – if he wanted to spend it wandering around in the dead of night, that was his choice. Even if it hadn't really been a choice so much as an idiotic repercussion of his temper.

"Maybe I just felt like taking a _long_ walk," he said a little nastily. The tension was spreading so thickly through the car that it was forming its own _atmosphere_.

"You are lying," Spock accused tonelessly. Jim reflexively clenched his fists, then hissed as his left hand painfully reprimanded him for forgetting his injury. Dark eyes glanced swiftly towards him at the sound.

"You started it," Jim snapped back at him, the pain doing nothing for his temper. He immediately regretted the comment – it had given too much away, and suddenly it felt like an iceberg had slipped in between their seats.

"…You recovered the message," Spock deduced, not seeming surprised. Although it would be hard to tell just then, given that he'd taken on all the liveliness of a cemetery statue. Silence. Then, "what did you do?" he asked again.

Jim leaned against the backrest of his seat, slumped over inelegantly and letting his forehead rest against the cool glass of the window. "Like I said – nothing," he replied, some of his temper leaking away, to be replaced once again by sheer fatigue. He couldn't keep up with this rollercoaster anymore. It was making him nauseous. With a soft outtake of breath he closed his eyes and decided to just tell him. "I was pissed off. Really, _really_ pissed off. I mean I was geared up enough to light their house on fire or something," he admitted. "But I got there, and I couldn't do it." A self-deprecating laugh slipped past his bruised lip. "I figured it out."

Spock's voice was very quiet when, after a long minute, he spoke. "What did you 'figure out'?" he asked.

Jim waved a hand vaguely through the air. "That I don't have to be _that_ guy anymore," he replied. "You know – just somebody who does something, no matter how stupid it is, because that's what he _wants_ to do. I could have made them eat their words, but it wouldn't have changed anything, and it would have been – you know – bad form for a captain." He laughed again. Not that it seemed to have mattered much. He'd still gotten into a fight anyway, after all, and _that_ fight didn't even have a damn good reason behind it.

The rest of the ride passed in silence. Jim didn't have the energy to look over at Spock and try to see what he thought about all of this. He figured that even if he bothered to, he wouldn't be able to tell. So instead he just kept his eyes shut, and wondered if this new, engaging friendship between them had now suffered irreparable damage. _I was going to cheer him up,_ he thought mockingly. Instead he'd probably just made things worse.

He only looked up when he felt the engine begin to slow. The familiar red and white décor of a medical building greeted his gaze from across the parking stretch. Damn, he hated hospitals. The people in them had a bad habit of telling him off like nobody's business. At least when Bones did it he knew it was because the man was just generally disgruntled, and not because he thought Jim was an ass. Even if he _did_ think Jim was an ass sometimes, too.

"Your epiphany would have proved more advantageous had it occurred to you _before_ you decided to strand yourself in an unfamiliar city after dark," Spock noted, his voice surprising Jim so much that he actually jumped a little.

"… I… guess," he agreed uncertainly.

"However," Spock continued. "Considering the tendency which I have observed in most humans to simply obey their impulses, the fact that you were able to come to such a logical conclusion at all is… impressive."

Jim felt his throat close up a bit at the roundabout praise. The sensation only increased when he looked directly at Spock's face, and found that some of the cold grips of Vulcan self-control had eased, and that his eyes had turned surprisingly gentle.

The soft 'click' of the driver's side door opening pulled him out of the moment. Letting out a breath he didn't realize he'd been holding, Jim gave his first officer an awkward, semi-painful smile, and then exited the car himself. He wavered a bit unsteadily on his feet as his head suffered from the abrupt change in altitudes, but after a moment, he found that he could walk without stumbling. Spock didn't take hold of his arm again, but he was clearly intent on walking close enough to stop Jim if he fell. It was simultaneously embarrassing and reassuring.

When they entered the medical building, Spock firmly directed Jim into a chair, and then went to find a nurse. Jim kept one eye on him as he looked around the building, which was clean and airy and had that typical 'med-bay' smell to it. A few other patients seemed to be waiting their turns to receive medical attention – a girl with a bandaged hand, a few guys who looked like they'd been in a fight not unlike the one Jim had participated in. There was a kind of efficient quiet all around, punctuated only by the occasional squeak of shoes against the smooth floor, or the distant sounds of machinery and patients. Not a busy night.

Spock came back a few minutes later and took the seat next to him. "You will not have to endure being here for long," he said, managing to sound simultaneously detached and reassuring. And, indeed, it only took a few minutes for the other patients to be completely thinned out, after which an aging doctor called his name. He was greeted with the usual, disapproving expression when he made his appearance.

"Were you with those other two?" the man asked gruffly as he directed Jim to an empty alcove, and onto a stiff, raised bench.

"Nope," Jim informed him happily. When it seemed that no other details would be forthcoming, the doctor sighed and began to scan him. He might've muttered something about 'young people' and 'idiots' while he was at it, but it was under his breath and, so, might also have been some coincidentally formatted medical jargon.

"I think he likes me," Jim said in a stage-whisper to Spock, consciously attempting to use humour to banish the last of the frigidity between them. Spock raised an eyebrow at him, but otherwise seemed disinclined to take the bait, or make some witty comment of his own. The doctor just rolled his eyes, and then listed off the diagnoses for several fairly minor injuries. The worst damage actually had been done when that chair clipped his hand – it had apparently fractured a couple of bones.

"It's a good thing he missed my head, then," Jim had quipped unthinkingly when he was told. He almost didn't see one of Spock's own hands twitch in reaction, fingers curling and then uncurling briefly at his side. It looked like an agitated gesture. _Huh_, he thought, wondering what had set it off.

The doctor treated his injuries none-too-gently, but thankfully didn't ask him to stay for observation or any other ridiculous reason. Jim was only too glad to abandon the facility when it was over, feeling less pained, but still quite tired. By the time they made it back to their lodgings he was nearly dead on his feet. It was with some relief that he stumbled into their quarters, struggled out of his more restrictive clothing, and then essentially collapsed onto his narrow bed. The last words to leave his lips before he fell asleep were "thanks for coming and getting me, Spock."

The last, and most relieving sight to grace his eyes was the contemplative expression on Spock's face.

---

**Author's Note:** Well, there's chapter five! Thanks to everyone who reviewed, and everyone who contributed to the 'alone = fear?' question. Everyone made their points quite eloquently, and the concensus my brain seems to have reached is that 09 Kirk can _handle_ being alone, but really, really doesn't like to, and is afraid of it, but is more afraid that he will be alone because everyone he cares about will reject him sooner or later. Oh, and also that he has fatalistically resigned himself to this fate, even as he fears it.

Poor Jimmy. He's like a golden retriever puppy who's been kicked one too many times.


	6. Chapter 6

Despite the trials of the previous day, Jim only got a few hours of sleep that night. He wasn't terribly surprised by this. Most medical treatments had some weird affects on him – typically benign, but still weird. Difficulty sleeping was a common one. He flexed his left hand experimentally and got a brief twinge of pain, although nothing near as bad as it had been. It was almost back to normal. He had one hell of a headache, but otherwise, he seemed to be remarkably improved. Rumpled, uncomfortable, but improved.

He clambered awkwardly out of the unfamiliar bed, and with a puzzled glance to his right noticed that Spock's was meticulously made, and looked utterly unslept in. Curious, he made his way out of the room and found his wayward first officer sitting cross-legged on a mat in the next one, his back to him and the lights dimmed, with a few candles adding some ambience. If he didn't know better, he'd think the set-up was for a steamy date. But clearly that wasn't the case.

Jim hesitated for a moment, warring between curiosity and uncertainty. Curiosity won out, as it most often did. "Hey, Spock," he called, half-whispering for reasons more instinctive than practical. "What are you doing?"

There was a long pause. For a minute he wondered if he was being intentionally ignored, or if Spock maybe hadn't heard him. But then he was answered, in a tone of suppressed annoyance. "I am attempting to meditate," Spock said, the implication of 'and you are ruining it' chasing the sentence invisibly. Jim stiffened at his tone.

"Oh," he replied tensely. "Sorry. I'll just – I'll leave you to it, I guess." He wondered at how frustrating and saddening it felt to have the 'unfriendly' attitude grip Spock again. He supposed that he was still largely in the same mood that he'd been in before last night's little misadventure – he must have just imagined that things were thawing out.

"…Wait," Spock said, as he turned to go.

Jim waited.

"I… apologize if my tone conveyed any accusation. That was both inappropriate and undeserved," the half-Vulcan admitted. Then he shifted, coming out of his meditative position and rising smoothly to his feet. He turned around. If he didn't have reason to suspect it, Jim never would have guessed that Spock had spent several hours sitting on the floor. He didn't even need to stretch.

"It's okay," Jim assured him, feeling uncomfortable and self-conscious. "I get it, I just have bad timing. It happens. You don't have to stop or anything."

"My focus has been broken," Spock said dismissively. Then he glanced at the nearest clock. "You have only been asleep for four hours. That seems insufficient."

Now it was Jim's turn to be dismissive. "I can't sleep any more. Sometimes drugs do funny things to my head," he explained, relieved but a little bit confused to see Spock slipping into a subtly more affable demeanor again. He wavered back and forth between commenting on it – and then barreled ahead. "Are you alright?" he asked bluntly.

Spock blinked. He seemed to consider the question a little strange. "With all due respect, Jim, you were the one who endured physical trauma last night. I was never harmed," he pointed out.

"…_**What?**_" Jim asked, looking at Spock incredulously. But his first officer was perfectly serious and sincere. "You were never _harmed?_" he repeated. "Look, Spock, I understand if you'd prefer not to think about it, but your… 'relatives' essentially sent you hate mail. Really ugly hate mail. I mean, it happened. I read the message. You can't tell me that that didn't _harm_ you." Hell, it had 'harmed' Jim, and he was very much a third party to the entire incident.

Spock gave him what could fairly be dubbed a 'considering' look. "I see," he said at length, although _what_ he saw seemed perfectly unclear. "Jim, while I realize that my behavior onboard the _Enterprise_ during the Nero crisis may have given you an erroneous impression of my self-control, those were remarkable circumstances. It is not easy to cause me emotional injury. A slanderous message does not have the same effect on my stability as it would an average human's."

Jim looked him up and down. He took in the neutral expression, the perfect posture, the neatly pressed clothes and tidily combed hair. The utter lack of expressiveness, even in his eyes. "Bullshit," he said emphatically.

Funny. That word seemed to get a lot of use around Spock.

The Vulcan opened his mouth to retort – likely to deny – but Jim cut him off. "Don't say it isn't. I might not know you as well as I'd like to, Spock, but I'm pretty damn sure that you don't tell flat-out lies over things that have no effect on you."

_Ha,_ he thought, as Spock seemed to hesitate, to lose some of his rock-hard footing. _Got you. If it didn't bother you, then why deny it had ever happened?_

In his defense, Jim had no idea how guilty lying made Spock feel, nor that the subsequent feeling of guilt only intensified over the shame of experiencing such a distinctive emotion. He was attempting to trap his friend on a strictly intellectual level – behavioral analysis. The subsequent maelstrom of emotion he was unwittingly creating was just an unfortunate side-effect.

But he realized that there _was_ a chink in his argument. Spock could have said that he lied in order to keep Jim from flying off of the handle. To prevent him from doing pretty much exactly what he'd done – running off into the night in a fit of outrage. They both knew, however, that Spock hadn't anticipated that. So really, if he tried to qualify his lie then it would have to be with another lie… and thus would begin a tangled web indeed.

Spock proved wise enough to not start down that path. He kept up a tense silence instead.

"I _do_ get it, now," Jim said at length, rubbing a hand across his forehead in an effort to ease some of the throbbing there. "You're not alright. That's fine – we don't have to talk about it." He may not have had much experience with the Vulcan suppression of emotions, but Jim at least possessed a little thing called masculine pride, so he could understand not wanting to dredge up all of your issues. "Does meditating help?" he asked instead.

After a brief pause, Spock inclined his head. "I have always meditated in order to center my emotions. It is an effective means of achieving clarity," he admitted.

"Okay, well, next time just let me know, and I won't disturb you," Jim offered.

"A reasonable solution," Spock agreed. "However, I doubt it will be required of you. Given that we will be parting ways soon, there should be no need for such considerations."

An uncomfortable mixture of confusion and ice settled in Jim's stomach. "Huh?" he asked, unable to produce a more coherent response just then. Parting ways? What the hell? They had another four days of leave, unless the computer crew moved really, _really_ fast, and after that _both_ of them were going back to the ship.

Weren't they?

Spock didn't seem particularly perturbed by his own statement. "Of course, Jim," he said neutrally. "We have visited your mother, and you have accompanied me in exploring a large portion of this city. We have completed our agreed-upon endeavors. There is no further logical reason for us to remain in one another's company."

"…"

"I will, of course, report back for duty once the repairs to the ship's computer system have been completed," Spock said, perfectly even-toned and straight-faced, and quite serious. "In the meantime, it would be prudent of me to return to my Starfleet-assigned lodgings. There are several ongoing projects which would benefit from my attention."

_He's leaving,_ Jim thought, shocked to the core by this perfectly reasonable turn of events.

_Well what did you expect?_ one of his less pleasant inner voices chimed in. _That he'd just spend his whole vacation humouring you?_

He tried to ignore the little voice which resolutely answered 'yes'. He'd been having such a good time in Spock's company that he'd forgotten how tentative their relationship really was. What if he'd imagined most of it? Spock was such a widely interpretable person, Jim realized that he could have just been projecting his own innate desire for companionship onto him. All those little, subtle things he thought he'd seen… what if they hadn't actually been there? What if he'd been imagining Spock to be a person whose company he'd enjoyed, filling in the blanks afforded by his natural demeanor with suggestions and hints of something more?

_I don't see ghosts._

The thought drifted unbidden into his mind. It was oddly abstract for his usual way of thinking, but the sentiment, he found, rang true in him. He didn't project things onto Spock – even if he was afraid that he did. He refused to believe that he would put someone else through the process of being so badly misperceived.

"No," he said abruptly, folding his arms across his chest.

Spock raised an eyebrow at him.

"No," Jim reiterated. "If you want to go to San Francisco and do work for the rest of your vacation, that's fine. But I'm coming with you," he declared resolutely. "I'm having too much fun with you to stop now."

Oh, **hell**, was he ever going out on a limb here. But he didn't want to see Spock leave. It was as simple as that. On the _Enterprise_ there would be duties and regulations and missions to keep his mind occupied, but right now, for these few days, he had the opportunity to gain insight to a person whom he was quickly realizing was far more engaging than he'd previously been led to believe. Maybe more engaging than anyone else on the entire ship.

"I must confess," said Spock. "Your definition of 'fun' seems to be a most perplexing one."

Jim leaned against the nearest wall, internally hoping that this whole entire thing wasn't going to blow up in his face and leave him _completely_ at odds with his first officer, but externally projecting an appearance of calm. _Ha, Vulcans aren't the only ones who can do that,_ he thought, before speaking. "How d'you figure?" he asked ineloquently.

Spock inhaled shortly. "'Fun', as I understand it, is defined as an activity which one finds pleasantly entertaining. So far, we have visited your mother – whom you have already professed feeling discomfort towards – engaged in mundane activities which were likely common to your Earth-raised sensibilities, explored a city which has little relevance or connection to you, and endured unwarranted assault. None of these activities would seem to fit the specified parameters of what humans deem 'fun'."

Jim made a great show of considering this statement, slowly nodding his head in an exaggeratedly thoughtful fashion, as if he was turning it over in his mind. In reality he was trying to wish his headache away.

"I see what you're driving at," he agreed after a minute, when all his _hmm_'s and _haa_'s only managed to start a soft buzzing in his skull. "But it was still fun. Well, maybe not the whole 'unwarranted assault' part, but the rest of it had its moments," he amended. And then, because he couldn't help but ask, he also blurted out: "haven't you enjoyed any of this?"

Spock gave him a bland look. "Enjoyment is an emotional response," he pointed out. Jim rolled his eyes.

"_Yeah_, I know," he said, perhaps a bit harshly, letting some of his defensiveness show. "So that's it? We're going to play the 'let's pretend that Spock doesn't have any feelings' game?"

"It is not a game," Spock refuted. Ironically, given the topic of discussion, he seemed to be letting some of his temper slip out. "I would not expect you to comprehend the importance of emotional suppression and internal stability. Clearly you are incapable of such a sophisticated level of personal control," he all but spat at him. "It is the only logical explanation for your abundant inability to pass so much as a single twenty-four hour span of time without incurring the wrath of some other being. You may be able to afford yourself the luxury of wallowing in your emotions without any regard for higher thinking or obtaining a more enlightened way of living, like an ill-bred animal unable to distinguish between its base instincts and its own intellect, but _Vulans are different_."

The last notes of the sentence seem to ring out almost painfully through the room, coated in an unnatural amount of venom.

Jim was gaping. He knew he was. He couldn't really help it – he'd seen Spock go flying off the handle before, of course, but that had been a violently physical explosion. He'd expressed his anger with his fists, and frankly, that was a little easier to take. A punch to the gut? No problem. An acidic, verbal lashing from his first officer? _Ouch_.

_Guess I know what he really thinks of me now_.

His face reddening, Jim pushed himself away from the wall, wondering why he always seemed to have such shitty luck at making friends. Spock's eyes had gone wide as the silence fell, thick and heavy, between them. But why should he be surprised? Why should either of them? It was only what _everyone_ thought. Brash young Captain Kirk, sleeps with anything in a skirt, shoots first and asks questions later, and lets the rules go hang themselves. Has all the cultural sensitivity of a brick and the subtlety of an anvil.

He turned to leave, to walk out of the room. Maybe he'd just get ready, and then he and Spock could part ways – as his first officer was undoubtedly anxious to do. Jim had no clue where he'd go from there. Suddenly his vacation time was looking empty, long, and unwelcome.

"My statements were erroneous and spoken out of anger," Spock said, the words tumbling out with uncommon speed as he stood there, hands folded at his sides. Jim couldn't help looking at him in surprise, the sudden change of tune a little bit jarring. The tainted edge of anger was completely gone from his voice now. "They were clearly illogical and poorly reasoned, finding their basis in conjecture and my own frustrations. I apologize," he insisted.

It was all Jim could do to just stare at him in confusion. "…What?" he finally asked, suddenly hit by the concept that it was too early in the morning for this shit.

Spock closed his eyes, briefly, seeming to come to some internal point or conclusion. "As I said before, meditation has always helped me to control my emotions. However… traditionally, Vulcan meditation requires one to use the mental centering of the planet Vulcan as a focus point. For obvious reasons this is now no longer a viable practice," he explained. "It has made meditation more difficult. Subsequently, many of my efforts at self-control have failed. This is not your fault. You merely provided a convenient target."

Jim considered this. He was still hurt and insulted, and had to fight back the urge to just turn around and take off. But the genuine sentiment of remorse which Spock's words put together halted him, as did the man's own explanation for his outburst. What he'd said had stung. Not because it was the worst way Jim had ever been insulted – no, by those standards it was a downright _tame_ insinuation. No, it was because Spock had said it, right at a time when he'd thought that they were starting to gain a better understanding of one another.

But he couldn't hang onto it. _I'm sorry,_ said Spock's body language, as clear as day even though he was still stiff and upright. _I didn't mean it, I take it back_.

He sighed.

"Well that sucks," he said, giving Spock a sideways glance. Then he snorted. Then the snort progressed into a brief chuckle, and he lowered his face into his hands. _We make a good pair_, he decided. _We're both all messed up in the head._

"Jim…" Spock trailed off.

Jim waved his concern away. "It's okay, Spock, I get it. Apology accepted," he assured him.

"Do you see now why it would be unwise for us to continue in one another's company?" his first officer insisted. "Until I have found a more stable means of controlling my reactions, my potential volatility is a danger to you."

For a long, unsteady moment, Jim simply stared at him. Then an internal light-bulb went on.

"You're afraid you're gonna go all batshit crazy and try and strangle me again, aren't you?" he asked. Spock wouldn't meet his gaze.

"It is a distinct possibility," he simply said.

Jim shook his head. "I don't think you're _that_ far-gone," he noted, considering that – regardless of his personal preferences on the matter – a brief verbal spat didn't hold a candle to the pent-up rage which Spock had expressed after his mother's death. Not even close. Still thinking fast, he barreled ahead. "And besides, if anything, it looks to me like you _need_ to have a friend around."

Spock's expression shifted momentarily from contrition to confusion. It was subtle and hard to see, but Jim _did_ see it, and that physical confirmation that he wasn't just imagining his friend's expressions and 'tells' bolstered his confidence. "It makes sense, Spock. If you're having trouble controlling yourself, then it's a good idea to have someone around who can _help_. You know, to keep an eye on things, make sure situations don't get out of hand," he reasoned, lathering his argument in all the usual, compelling charm which he employed whenever he really wanted to get his way. But the half-Vulcan still looked unconvinced. Jim wracked his brain for something more to add. "Uh, plus, as your captain," he said. "It… would make sense for me to, you know, be aware of your – uh – state of mind. Since you're my first officer, right? I mean, if anything happens to me, you're in charge of the ship, aren't you? So I need to be confident that you can handle it."

There. That sounded perfectly logical, didn't it?

Spock stiffened at the mention of their respective roles as captain and first officer. For a minute, Jim was afraid that he'd alienated him by bringing up duty. But though he seemed tense when he replied, at least Spock didn't retreat back into his completely hollow shell. "Your argument has some merit," he agreed with clear reluctance.

Jim clapped his hands together, the sound strangely loud in the room around them, and felt some of the tension in his chest unknot a little. "Good. That's settled, then," he said. "We'll stick together. Now, I don't know about you, but I want breakfast. Just let me take a shower and then we'll go for waffles or something."

He left his slightly bemused first officer in his wake as he went to finally divest himself of the remnants of an uncomfortable night, running a hand through his hair and wondering when he'd gotten so soft and easily injured. Now _there_ was a liability – Spock could apparently take the wind out of his sails with just a few sentences. Not fun. He wondered if they maybe shouldn't just part ways…

It would probably save him a lot of hassle in the long run. And, if they turned around now, they'd still be able to eke out a good working relationship. It was an idea with, as Spock said 'some merit'.

But Jim didn't want to. A part of him felt like it had been flayed open and cut apart by the unexpected barrage of insults he'd endured - and still, he didn't want to.

So instead he decided to just stop thinking about it, and considered other things. He'd have to send a message to his mother, as he'd promised to – even though she'd probably already forgotten about it. But he'd told her that he would. Bones was also expecting him to drop him a line at some point, so he should probably get that done. Then he'd also have to check in with Starfleet to get an update on the _Enterprise_'s status.

He glanced in the mirror, noting the visible bruises on his face which had yet to fade. His cheek was an unpleasantly shade of vivid purple. But at least the swelling in his lip had gone, and the bruise on his forehead wasn't too noticeable so long as he tilted his head in the right direction.

Crap. Who was he kidding? He looked like he'd been in a fight. There was no way that they weren't going to notice.

Nevertheless he cleaned himself up as best he could. When he emerged from the bathroom several minutes later it was to see that Spock had cleared away his candles, set back the lights, and was waiting patiently for him.

"I had considered simply leaving while your attention was occupied," Spock informed him.

"I'm glad you didn't," Jim replied with a grin. Huh, he hadn't thought of that possibility. That was a little unusual for him, all things considered. His headache was probably getting to him more than he thought.

Spock just raised an eyebrow at him, the very picture of composure – despite his claims to the contrary – and walked alongside Jim as they exited the room. "So, do you still want to head back to San Francisco, or would you rather spend more time here?" he asked, thinking to himself that less than a day wasn't really a great deal of exploration time.

"It would advisable for me to distance myself from some of the… responses this place has provoked," Spock replied honestly.

Oh. Right. Jim guessed that if you were trying to avoid your emotions, your dead mother's hometown wasn't the best place to do it. Especially if it was also home to your less-than-stellar extended family.

"San Francisco it is, then," he declared agreeably. His mood was improving a little bit as the fresh air seemed to fully wake him up, and relieve the sluggish pain in his head.

Spock made no further comment as they hunted down a good spot for breakfast. Jim flatly refusing to eat anything other than hand-prepared food while the opportunity was still available to him. But even though he stayed silent, he seemed to relax unconsciously, the tension around his eyes easing into a less pointed lack of expressiveness.

Jim didn't want to kill the beginnings of their return to friendly camaraderie, but as they found a little place that served very nice hand-made waffles and syrup, he found that a question had occurred to him. And it wouldn't leave him alone, not even when he covered his food with an obscene amount of whip-cream, and then attempted to amuse Spock by injecting some directly up his own nose. What? It worked on the friends he'd had when he was ten. Such as they'd been...

He nearly asked a few times, but always caught himself, reigning in his curiosity with considerable difficulty and instead asking silly questions like 'so, do Vulcans eat dairy products?' and 'how'd you all agree on those haircuts, anyway?'

"Jim," Spock finally said. "If you have a valid inquiry, I suggest you make it."

Well. So much for subtlety. Not that it was ever one of his strong points, but that was kind of embarrassing. Clearing his throat, he figured that – having been called out – he might as well just go for it.

"You and Uhura…" he began, noticing the slight tensing of Spock's shoulders out of the corner of his eye. He stopped. "Nevermind. Sorry."

He turned his attention back to his food, immediately regretting that he'd said anything at all. He could almost feel Spock's eyes burning a hole into the top of his head, but he didn't look up to confirm it – he liked to think that it might just be his imagination.

"Complete your inquiry," Spock said after a moment, and then Jim _did_ look up. "I cannot guarantee that I will answer it. But ask."

His mouth went unusually dry at the intent look in those dark eyes, and he was reminded vaguely of a moment from the day before, when the sunlight and Spock's features had inexplicably conspired to rob him of his breath. "What happened between you two?" he blurted, and then immediately decided to be more specific. "I mean, did you – you know – lose 'focus' and tell her off or something?" It had occurred to him that Spock's troubles might have been the reason for the tense scene he'd witnessed in the shuttlebay.

Spock seemed to consider his question for a moment, but his expression really was utterly inscrutable. Jim only assumed that he was thinking over his answer because there wasn't much _else_ he could be doing. Except maybe having unflattering thoughts about his ship's captain. He shifted uncomfortably in his seat.

"…In a sense," Spock admitted after a moment, surprising Jim, who had thoroughly expected to get no confirmation or denials either way. "My relationship with the lieutenant has always been somewhat unstable. Vulcan and human philosophies on romantic interactions tend to deviate widely from one another on certain key issues. This has repeatedly proven detrimental to our understanding of one another. The most logical course of action, therefore, was to terminate those interactions, as they were proving unsatisfactory to both of us."

"So… you broke up?" Jim clarified. Spock inclined his head.

"The process was slowed somewhat by the incident involving Nero. She did not feel it would be prudent to terminate our courtship when I was enduring such an… unpleasant series of events. But our separation was already inevitable, even at that point," he explained. Then his eyebrows went up slightly and he turned towards his own plate, seeming to adopt a purposefully careless demeanor. "I am aware of your pre-existing interest in her, of course. Should you desire to pursue a more intimate relationship, you need not feel hindered by my presence."

Oh yeah. Uhura was smoking hot. Jim almost laughed out loud at himself – it had been a while since he'd thought about that. Not that he'd suddenly turned blind to pretty women, or anything, but after seeing the lieutenant lock lips with Spock in the transporter room, he'd finally given up. Clearly if she was into _Spock_ then he was so far from her type that he might as well be a genderless amoeba. It was also highly inappropriate to flirt with his chief communications officer while he was serving on the bridge, so he'd firmly instructed his brain to keep out of his pants whilst on duty. Given that nine times out of ten the bridge was the only place where the two of them interacted these days, it had effectively neutralized his hopeless infatuation.

With an internal shrug, he said as much to Spock.

"Then why did you inquire?" Spock asked, plainly at a loss. Faced with that particular question Jim found that he, too, was a little stumped.

"I don't know," he admitted at length. "I guess you two always just kept everything so quiet, it made me curious about what was going on."

He had a little trouble deciphering the look which Spock gave him then. It was accompanied by a short exhalation of breath. "I shall endeavor to anticipate this trait of yours in the future," Spock noted, before turning the maple syrup bottle over in a casual examination. The amber fluid shifted behind the tinted glass which confined it, contrasted smoothly by the pale length of the Vulcan's fingers.

Jim snorted. "Oh, like you don't get curious over things," he accused playfully. "You're a scientist. It's practically your job to ask questions."

Spock didn't deny it. "Indeed," he agreed instead. "I will admit, my inquisitive nature has often proved detrimental to the logical conduct of my behavior. Fortunately, the acquisition of scientific knowledge and understanding is a beneficial occupation – which is more than I can say for your own predilection to inquire after the personal lives of individual crewmembers."

Having slowly began the process ofshooting some whip-cream into his mouth while Spock talked, Jim now proceeded to cough most of it up. _I may be a nosy bastard, but at least I use it to benefit the Federation? Did he really say that?_ he wondered. One look at Spock's eyes confirmed it.

Yes. Yes he did.

"Oh come on," Jim argued, once he'd used his napkin to clear his air passages and face in such a way that he was capable of actually speaking again. "I bet you get curious about people, too. You just don't press it like I do," he teased.

Spock looked him up and down, a relieving glitter of amusement present in his manner as he seemed to assess his statement. "You have a point," he agreed a length. "I will admit that the question of your 'car and cliff' incident has… intrigued me. Your abrupt avoidance of the topic is uncharacteristic, particularly given your candid attitude towards the majority of your youthful escapades."

He said it in such a typical, unphased, Spock-ish manner that for a minute Jim didn't even realize what he'd actually _said_, or notice the underlying question and invitation to the comment. When it caught up to him, though, he felt an uncomfortable jump of nervousness and apprehension. Across the table, Spock was observing him in a quiet, expectant manner. Gauging his response.

For a long minute Jim just sat there, watching Spock watch him. Then he sighed heavily, and pushed his plate away, abandoning his fork with a clatter and leaning back against the synthetic folds of his seat. He scratched the back of his head and ran his teeth over the top of his bottom lip, thinking. "It's not really important," he said, tense and defensive.

Spock made no reply. He didn't need to. They both saw the utter contradiction of the statement – if it wasn't important, then he would have simply mentioned it.

Nope. The cards were clearly laid out on this table. He'd been picking Spock's brain all morning, and despite a few ups and down, his first officer had obliged him. The question being posed now was whether or not this was going to be a two way street. Jim didn't want to talk about this. But he also didn't want to lose what little headway he'd made. He was presented with the conundrum of opening up or closing off, and both held their own quiet little terrors.

It was on the tip of his tongue to issue a denial, or change the topic. He started to. But the brief glimmer of disappointment he saw in his dining companion halted him, stayed the knee-jerk reaction to pull away.

He closed his eyes.

_Dammit._

And then a moment later, when he opened them again, it was to fix his gaze on Spock as he recounted a most unpleasant incident.

---

**Author's Note:** I'm gonna take the opportunity to answer a few questions/comments here!

- Regarding Beta-readers, thank you very, _very_ much to everyone who offered to beta this story. For the time being I think I'm going to keep it as it is, just to try and maintain my update schedule and practice my own proof-reading skills, but I am incredibly flattered that you folks offered. When this story's completed I may very well try and go back to fix any errors and sort of polish it off.

- Somebody brought up the question of Kirk, Spock, and sexual positions. Just to get this out of the way, this story is not going to get that explicit. I appreciate a steamy sex scene as much as the next gal, don't get me wrong, but I've never been comfortable with writing them myself. So the good news is, however you prefer to have them get it on in the bedroom – this story is probably not going to dispute that notion. The end goal is to see them fall in love here, not take a tumble on the mattresses. Plus… well, Spock's sex life is pretty damn complicated, as actually _will_ be addressed in this story. Just to make it clear, I'm not throwing out the idea of them ever having sex in the eventuality of this story. It just won't be described in such a way that you'll know who put their what where. Note the rating, yeah?

- On religion – conventional Earth religions are kind of hedged around most of the time in Star Trek, and so it will be here, too. Vulcans have more of a spirituality than a religion, I think, but I'll try and keep Spock in pace with his cultural beliefs and practices.

- Spock was agitated when Jim noted that it was a good thing the chair missed his head because, clever Vulcan that he is, his brain immediately put together what would have happened if an object with that much force behind it _had_ connected with his head. This was unpleasant for him.

- Jim wouldn't have been able to convince Spock's relatives to see him, _especially_ if their children were present. They're bigoted assholes. The best non-violent confrontation he could have hoped for was getting the door slammed in his face.

- Yeah, communications abilities in Star Trek are messed up. I keep wondering when we're going to hit the big Signal Crisis that suddenly obliterates our e-mail, internet, and cellphone capabilities, and forces us to make up a new and decidedly inferior system. The dark days are coming! Be warned!

- I will be thrilled if I can keep up the pace and update this every day. Being a fast typer helps. It is fully my intention to do this, as this story has been eating up my spare minutes, but if there's a delay, believe me, I will be as disappointed as everyone else. This is fun to write. I _do_ have a life, though (fussy thing, it always gets in the way of my fun) so I can make no promises.

- I'm always open to suggestions. They quite often provide me with either direct or indirect inspiration.

…and so ends the longest AN I have ever written. Don't expect many like this, lol. If you actually read all of that, add a skinny black lab Spock puppy to play with your poor little Jimmy retriever. And if you review, get yourself a cookie.


	7. Chapter 7

Stanley wasn't the worst step-father a kid could ask for. But he cut the line pretty damn close. Sam tended to just keep his head down, to duck out of the way and avoid him, but Jim wasn't so good at that. He couldn't help it, really. Being ignored was something he hated – so slinking off to the sidelines just wasn't an option for him.

Stan was one of those guys who seemed pretty nice half of the time. When he'd still been dating Jim's mother, he'd sometimes bring the boys gifts – model ships, ice-cream, toy phasers. The kind of stuff you could easily produce for a couple of kids you didn't really know. He shared Winona's love of antiquated technology, and he had a confidant, boisterous personality. But he had one hell of a temper, and once he went off, he simmered for a long time. Jim had been mostly ambivalent to the man until he moved in. Then things started to go downhill very, very fast. Stan didn't like to have him and Sam 'underfoot', as he called it. He had his projects, and neither of them could have cared less what they were about, but somehow whenever one of them failed to pull through or work out, it was always _their_ fault. If something broke around the house, it was because one of _them_ had mishandled it. If his latest 'invention' couldn't get off the ground, it was because _they_ were always running around, distracting him. And since Sam managed to skirt around trouble, nine times out of ten 'they' was in fact just Jim.

Oh, Stanley never hit him, no. But he'd explode just the same. That man could shout himself blue in the face, and he could hiss under his breath the kind of words no sane person would ever direct at a kid. And because Jim got angry right back at him, that seemed to immediately qualify him for 'delinquent' status. But he couldn't help it. He wasn't the only one Stan directed his tirades onto. The fights he and Jim's mother got into sometimes seemed like they could physically shake the house, and they always ended the same way – Sam in his room with the door shut, his mother quietly crying in the bathroom, and Jim, furious, at the top of the stairs. So he started throwing Stan's own temper back at him. He'd take the man's curses and twist them past his own lips, mocking and obnoxious in the way only a child could be. And when his 'step-father' would throw plates or glasses or one of his mother's rooster knick-knacks because he was so mad that he just had to break _something_, but he was too smart to hit Jim, then he'd throw and smash and break something of Stan's. Because this was _Jim's_ house, and everything in it belonged to _Jim's_ family, which Stanley most emphatically wasn't a part of.

The tension between them quickly built up to the boiling point. It got so that Jim actually wanted Stanley to hit him. He did everything he could to try and goad him into it, because he knew if that one little line was crossed then the bastard really would be sent packing. _Then_ who would be destined for jail?

It reached critical mass one week, back when his mother was still doing the occasional bit of off-planet colony work. She liked helping around the colonies, because they didn't have the resources that were available on Earth, and working to achieve self-sustainability was an interesting goal. Both Sam and Jim had often begged to go with her on these trips, but to no avail.

She wouldn't let them fly in space.

So they were left behind. Sam tucked himself away, as always, and Jim was left with Stan. Who was in an unusually good mood.

"You're not gonna be a problem for me much longer, boy," Stanley had informed him as he gathered up his tools, getting ready to head out to an old shed where he worked on his self-proclaimed 'inventions'.

"Why? Are you finally leaving?" Jim had quipped back with utter insolence, retrieving a glass of lemonade from the replicator. But Stanley didn't look annoyed. Instead, he just smiled.

"Nope," he said. "You are."

Jim had looked at him like he was crazy. "What?" he said, not liking the look on Stan's face one bit. "I'm not leaving. This is my house!"

"Not anymore," Stan replied, and if you hadn't known the context of their conversation, you'd think he was talking about the weather. "_I'm_ the one who's married to your mom, boy. Her house is my house – and we've all just about run out of room for you." That said, he leaned down a bit, something of a mocking swagger carrying over in his demeanor. "I saw your aptitude tests, punk. You're some kind of freak, 'cause I don't know how you cheated 'em, but it's good news for me. I figure it'll take me about a week once your mom gets back for me to convince her to ship you off to one of them special boarding schools. Let _them_ take the heat for a while," he snickered.

Jim felt his face flush, anger and fear and humiliation all filling him up in an unpleasant tangle. His mom wouldn't – she wouldn't send him off to some school. Not if he didn't want to go.

But, Stan had convinced her to do things he wouldn't expect her to before. And Jim knew… he knew that there was something about him that his mom just didn't like. No matter what he did or how he tried, he couldn't really fix it. So she might. She might send him away from her and Sam.

As if he was reading his thoughts, a wide grin split Stanley's face.

Jim threw his lemonade at it. "Fuck you, asshole," he said, using words specifically designed to enrage, to provoke. A trill of fear and mingled victory filled him when Stan's fist closed around the front of his shirt and yanked him, hard. He braced himself for it – but the man caught himself in time.

Instead of punching him, he just let him go, still smiling, and wiped the lemonade off of his face. Jim fumed as he watched him, shouting out insults and trying to rile him again. But that anger turned to fear when he saw Stan go into the sitting room, and pull open one of the glass cases by the entryway.

The case that had Jim's father's stuff.

"What are you doing?" he demanded, racing over as he heard the hinge creak, and one of George Samuel Kirk's academy trophies was plucked from its rightful place.

"Me?" Stan asked, holding the delicate award for third place in a shuttlecraft race between his hands. "I'm not doing anything, boy. You're the one who opened the case," he said, and realizing, Jim lunged to grab the bronze-coloured trophy – moments too late.

"You're the one who dropped it," Stan said snidely, before he threw it at the ground, hard. The stand snapped, and there was a sharp 'crack' as the little model shuttle broke and clattered. Then, just because he was too big for Jim to stop him, Stanley stomped a boot down onto the remains and mangled them further.

"Won't your mother be disappointed."

Jim heard the words distantly as he stared at the destroyed little trophy. He leaned down, not even looking at Stan as the man walked out of the room, whistling cheerfully to himself. Instead he carefully gathered up the pieces – and then with a cry of outrage let them fall again.

It took him about ten minutes to decide what he was going to do.

Stan was in his shed, still whistling away as he worked on whatever idiotic creation would never hold half as much meaning as a little bronze shuttlecraft. Jim found the key in the kitchen, lying innocently and out in the open on one of the counters. Clenching it in one fist, he slipped out of the front door and down the drive, to where a synthetic blue tarp was protecting the car from the elements.

He removed this none-too-gently, adrenaline heightening his senses and thundering in his ears as he kept one ear on Stan's distant whistling. As quietly as he could, he lifted the latch for the door, and the slipped into the driver's seat. His eyes assessed and examined, recalling the very, _very_ few times he and Sam had ridden in the vehicle with Stanley, and deducing through simple logic what steps he'd have to take. Once the engine started it would be loud. He only had one shot at this.

Satisfied that he'd figured it out, Jim shut the door behind him, shoved the key in the ignition, and turned. The pampered machine purred obediently to life, and he slouched down in the seat to hit the gas – barely able to see out the old glass windows. The car gave an awkward lurch – too fast. He moved his foot from the pedal, but the distant sound of an enraged shout spurred him on, and he tried again, the vehicle kicking up dirt and dust as it turned atop the bare earth. The wheel was heavy and awkward in his hands, but he obediently and clumsily managed to get the corvette onto the road.

A glance in the mirror revealed the sight of Stan erupting from around the other side of the house, running heavily to chase him down and shouting all the way.

Still consumed in his fury, Jim floored it. He knew where he was going. Let Stanley chase him – maybe he'd follow his precious car right over the cliff's edge, since Jim wasn't stopping until he'd completely totaled this thing.

The cop was an unforeseen side-effect, but the open air whipping around his head almost made him forget his fear and anger. He could feel his own pulse singing in his ears as the old-fashioned vehicle kicked up the dust, riding the wind to its destruction.

He almost rode with it.

For one dark instant as the cliff closed in on him, Jim thought about staying put. He was only a kid – he wasn't supposed to have those kinds of thoughts. But he was on the cusp of his teenage years, and in truth, more than intelligent enough for the concept which briefly flitted through his mind. He could go out in a blaze of glory. His mother would leave Stan, and she and Sam would realize how much they missed Jim, and how they shouldn't have spent so much time ignoring him. Maybe Stan would even go to jail. He thought about it, as the remaining stretch of ground grew scarce. What did he have to go back to? No one would believe that Stanley had broken the trophy, and even if they did, it would never excuse the car. He'd probably go to jail, just like Stan had said. Or else to some boarding school where they tried to pick his brain and make him into some obedient, dull, lifeless little drone.

If he died now, he wouldn't have to deal with all of that. He could even meet his father. His father… who had died to save his life.

Jim hit the break, sending the car spinning over the cliff, and jumped clear.

Later on, he could try and tell himself that it was just a miscalculation of distance and speed that had nearly gotten him killed, or that he'd stopped himself because he hadn't really wanted to die. But he always knew what the actual reason was.

How could he face his father in whatever afterlife was waiting for him as he was? How could he look the great and good George Samuel Kirk in the eye when he was… when he was just some punk delinquent kid? Too ungrateful to actually live his life?

How could he face his father if he took his sacrifice and shoved it?

So he'd pulled himself up, and when the robotic cop asked, he recited his name almost desperately. That moment, standing in the dust and dirt with his blood thundering in his ears, his heart racing and his body aching from being slammed into the ground, he'd never felt so alive. Before then he'd always been reckless. But after that, he flirted with danger as often and as brashly as he could.

Stanley tried to get him arrested. His mom finally took a side on the issue, and they split up. By Jim's standards it should have been a triumph.

But he couldn't think about the incident without thinking about that one moment when he'd come very, very close to sharing the corvette's destiny. It burned inside of him like a beacon of shame, and hesitation, and darkness, and 'what if'? As he grew older it seemed more and more pathetic, to think that he'd nearly killed himself over _Stanley_. It seemed to back up the arguments of those people who told him he was worthless, a mess, that he'd never amount to anything. Eventually he'd told Sam about it, and his brother had yelled himself blue in the face. He'd been so _angry_ that Jim could even think about doing something like that. It marked the first and last time his brother had ever hit him.

"I don't want to hear anything like that come out of your mouth again!" Sam had shouted. So Jim had obliged. He shut up about it, kept it quiet and buried, and never mentioned that moment before the cliff's edge.

But once he started talking to Spock, he found that he couldn't leave it out.

His tone was steady and even as he recounted the entire tale, completely, honestly. He lost himself in the memory and the quiet still of his audience, recounting the entire thing from start to finish without glossing over the details, or omitting anything at all. It was the whole, naked tale – still so vivid even after going so long without a proper telling. It was like his fierce desire to forget the whole thing had only served to burn it completely in his mind.

Spock didn't say a word as he spoke, until at length Jim ran out of steam, and took a long drink from his glass. He felt simultaneously apprehensive and relieved, which was a really bizarre combination. On the one hand, it actually felt good to more or less purge the incident to someone other than Sam, whose reaction had been… less than ideal. On the other, he was now half expecting Spock to express his utter disgust and then leave.

"And that's the car and cliff incident," Jim said after he'd drained the entire contents of his glass, keeping his gaze fixed on the table now. For a moment he felt like a man who'd just laid his neck out on a chopping block. The axe was there, his hands were tied – all that remained to be seen was whether or not Spock would swing.

There was a pause.

"I was almost the same age the first time I broke another child's nose," Spock said instead, and Jim's eyes flew up to lock onto his face, surprised by the unexpected revelation. The half-Vulcan's expression was utterly devoid of contempt or condemnation. Instead he merely looked thoughtful – and something else which was hard to place. "A small group of students at the educational facility I attended would make a daily practice of contriving various insults in an effort to provoke an emotional reaction from me. Eventually, they succeeded."

Jim looked at him for almost a full minute, taking in his guileless expression and the placid calm of his engaging, telling eyes. He felt something untwist inside of him.

"Yeah?" he said. "What did they say?"

"I will not go into specifics. However, the topic of my mother was broached," Spock replied.

"And you punched the kid?"

"Technically, his nose was broken when I tackled him into one of the testing chambers," Spock clarified. "But I did also strike him several times."

Jim laughed, trying to picture a miniature Spock as a whirlwind of childish fury. "Good for you," he said. Spock gave him a wry look.

"Centuries of Vulcan philosophy, and my father, would disagree with that assessment," he replied.

"Well," said Jim, unable to keep the smile off of his face. "I won't hold it against them. I know not everyone has the potential to achieve my levels of wisdom." Then, because it seemed prudent, he injected some more whipped cream into his mouth. He was rewarded with the faintest twitching of Spock's lips.

A moment later the playfulness passed, but not in a bad way. Spock's gaze turned thoughtful, then intent, and Jim actually had to swallow pretty hard when it met his own with some unspoken knowledge dancing behind it. "I feel I must once again apologize for my earlier words," Spock admitted. "Their inaccuracy was extensive."

With a brief, slightly self-deprecating chuckle, Jim waved him off. "Hey, don't worry, Spock. I've been called worse," he assured him. "Beside, you weren't _that _far from the mark." If anything, the car-and-cliff story should have convinced him that his assessment was bang-on accurate. But the look his first officer gave him stilled any further dismissals from passing his lips.

"I was," Spock insisted. "You are more than intelligent enough to control your impulses – as you have demonstrated before. I would be remiss if I left you with any impression that I believed otherwise."

If he didn't know any better, Jim would describe the subsequent feeling which formed in his chest as 'flustered'. He held Spock's gaze while he spoke, but once the sincere, dry, yet oddly compelling words had ended, he found that he could only duck his head away and fight the urge to fiddle with the whipped cream can. Instead he cleared his throat and lowered it steadily onto the table.

"Well… thanks," he said, a little bit awkward, before clearing his throat. When he finally managed to look at Spock again it was to see him lower his napkin onto the table, and then turn a casual, inquisitive gaze upon him.

"I believe we are finished here for now," his first officer noted. With a nod he agreed, and nearly in unison they rose from their seats.

Jim felt like some invisible weight had been lifted off of his chest as they headed back to their lodgings, intent on retrieving their bags and – in Jim's case – sending a few messages out. Spock apparently had fewer people to talk to than Jim did.

Which was actually kind of depressing. And explained a lot.

If Jim was worried that his first officer would feel left out, however, he needn't have been. As soon as he sent his transmission home his mother answered. He was a little disappointed, as he'd been hoping that she would be out and he could just leave a message. But she wasn't. Instead she was there, on the screen, grinning cheerfully until she caught sight of his face. Then her expression dropped like a stone.

"_Goddammit,_ Jimmy!" she cursed and scolded all at once. He reflexively flinched. "It's been a _day_. What did you do? Get off that shuttle and walk straight into a wall?"

He took a moment to consider that.

"…Yes?" he answered hopefully. She scowled at him.

"Nice try. And where's Spock?"

Jim blinked. _Where's Spock?_ "Uh… he's over by the window. Why?" His gaze flickered up to where his friend was examining the view. At the mention of his name, Spock had turned to regard him and the computer console curiously.

"Get him over here," his mother said impatiently, as if this should be the most obvious thing to do and Jim was just being exasperatingly dense. "I want to see if he's in as much of a state as you are."

"He's not," he assured her, but Spock had obligingly moved within view of the screen just the same.

Like the flicking of a switch, his mother's expression immediately brightened, and she greeted Spock with chipper enthusiasm. From then on Jim found himself to be something of a third wheel to his own call home – his mother directed nearly all of her inquiries about him towards his first officer. What had he done _this_ time, had he been behaving himself, were they having a nice trip, etc. Spock answered all of her questions honestly and efficiently, although he hedged around a few of the less pleasant details, much to Jim's approval. After a few minutes of this, Jim leaned back in his seat and made a show of examining some of the decorative objects on the desk.

His mother took one look at him and rolled her eyes.

"Are you feeling left out, Jimmy?" she asked, as Spock followed her line of sight to where he was idly batting at an artificial plant's decorative leaves.

"Oh, no, no," he assured her. "By all means, keep grilling my first officer. Pretend I'm not even here."

She gave him a disparaging look. "Well maybe if you didn't insist on telling me lies and half-truths, I would be able to trust your answers a little more often," she pointed out, but Jim could tell that she was only partially serious – she was mostly do this to get to him.

"Perhaps it would be better if I left," Spock suggested.

"_No,"_ Jim and his mother both said in unison, causing him to raise his eyebrows slightly and glance between them. "_I'll_ go," Jim continued, rising abruptly from his seat and straightening his shirt. "You two have a nice chat."

But as he turned to walk away, he found his path blocked.

"Jim," Spock said. That was all he did. But it worked.

It was something about his tone. Not reprimanding, or beseeching. It was almost a warning, although not quite – more like a grounding. _Stop being stupid,_ that one little word seemed to convey, yet not in an antagonizing fashion. It was more in the sense of what Jim's own thoughts would tell him when he knew he was over-reacting, or getting out of hand. The voice of reason and sanity, low and deep and tugging him out his self-centered little cloud.

And all he'd done was say his name.

Jim heaved a sigh and sat back down. His mother watched this exchange soundlessly. Then she gave Spock an appraising look, followed by a long whistle. "Why Spock, if I didn't know any better, I'd think that you have some kind of magical power over him," she noted, her voice laughing as though there was some secret joke behind her words. Spock gave her an intrigued look.

"I was not aware that humans still cultivated such beliefs," he replied.

"Oh, we don't," she assured him. "It's just a figure of speech."

Feeling vaguely exasperated again, Jim leaned his arm near the console, and wondered how long he was going to have to listen to the two of them 'chat'.

It was several minutes, as it turned out. Spock seemed to try and deflect the conversation so that his mother started _addressing_ him rather than just referring to him in the third person, but to limited success. She seemed to have decided that he was the easier one to talk to – and Jim would admit, just then, that she probably wasn't wrong. For his own part Spock actually just seemed a little… well, actually, he looked concerned over it. His gaze kept shifting over to Jim, assessing, as if he felt like he was over-stepping some boundary. When at last his mother bid them both goodbye, Jim let out a relieved breath and dropped his head against his arms.

"Gee. That was fun," he said, more exasperated than anything else.

Spock shifted slightly where he was standing. "I apologize, Jim. It was not my intention to monopolize-"

Jim cut him off with a dismissive gesture. "Hey, no, I know," he insisted immediately. "You even started out on the other side of the room. That was all her – I'm used to it," he admitted. "She doesn't like to talk to me when I look like I've been in a fight."

"Nevertheless, my apology stands," Spock insisted. Jim shook his head and then clasped the top of Spock's forearm in a gesture of reassurance.

"If you tell me you're sorry for something one more time today, I'll have to seal your mouth shut," he threatened jokingly. The arm under his hand tensed a little, and he remembered himself, and Spock's very real bubble of personal space. Hastily, he let go. "Shit. I'm always forgetting you don't like to be touched," he chided himself.

There was a slight shift in the muscles of Spock's throat as he seemed to swallow. "Do not concern yourself over it, Jim," he insisted politely.

For a second, Jim wondered if he'd just been granted permission to occasionally breach the invisible aura of Do-Not-Make-Contact which surrounded his first officer. But then he realized that the comment likely meant that he just shouldn't feel bad for forgetting himself. It was oddly disappointing – which was a little confusing, because he didn't know why he should feel disappointed, except that maybe he liked the idea of Spock making allowances for him. Or maybe he just liked the idea of being permitted to touch Spock.

His eyes widened briefly when _that_ particular thought shot up out of the blue. Rather than dwell on it – which could not be anything but a bad idea – Jim decided to immediately get his brain off of this topic. This very bad, weird, not good topic.

"Right!" he said instead. "Bones."

Spock raised an eyebrow at him.

"I should call Bones. I told him I would. Now's a good time," he babbled, turning promptly in his seat to set up the transmission. He held his breath as his fingers worked across the console, trying – and failing – to ignore the gentle wave of body heat emanating from his nearby first officer. Vulcans really did have a higher general temperature to them, didn't they? It was funny, because when one thought of it they ought to be a little _cooler_ than normal, given that they came from a desert planet. But maybe their bodies had just evolved to operate with more heat instead… Bones would probably know. He should ask him. Except that Bones didn't really specialize in xenobiology, so maybe he wouldn't. He was more of a human doctor, which was alright enough in Starfleet, since most cadets were still human. Although the number of other species enlisting had been going up lately…

Jim's panicked train of thought was mercifully halted when the chief medical officer's face appeared on the screen across from him. McCoy at first seemed utterly casual. But then his gaze sharpened, drifting between Jim and the half-Vulcan who was still standing nearby.

"Ah, _shit_," the doctor swore with feeling. "What is it? Some kind of emergency's come up, hasn't it? _Dammit,_ I knew I wouldn't get a full five days shore leave off of this…"

"Bones, _Bones,_" Jim interrupted, feeling distinctly confused. "What are you talking about?"

Bones blinked at him. "What you mean, 'what am I talking about'?" he demanded. "Something's got to be up, Jim, or else why would you and _Spock_ of all people be calling me together?"

Jim and Spock glanced at one another.

"So what is it?" he persisted. "Did that crazy-as-all-hell space dust create some kind of lethal parasite onboard the ship? Dammit, I knew I should have activated the disinfectant systems again before we left. God damn alien space-dust and its god damn contaminants, eating computers my ass. I knew it wouldn't stop there…"

"Bones. Relax," Jim instructed, cutting off his tirade and trying not to laugh at the disgruntled look on his face. "Nothing's wrong. Spock and I just decided to do a little sight-seeing together."

Dead silence greeted this assertion. Bones gave him a blank look.

"…Pull the other one, Jim. It's got bells on it," he then said.

Jim couldn't help but laugh a bit after that. "No, really," he insisted, before leaning towards the console's screen in a conspiratorial fashion. "He's actually pretty good company."

The look on his friend's face was priceless. "You… you're _serious?_" he demanded, gaze darting back and forth between Jim and Spock, as if they were an equation which didn't quite add up. "Jesus, Jim. _Spock?_"

The half-Vulcan in question took a deep breath – which would have been utterly unnoticeable if Jim hadn't been sitting so close to him. "Your eloquence is, as ever, astounding Doctor," Spock noted. McCoy narrowed his eyes at him.

"I wasn't talking to you," he said, raising a hand and jabbing a finger in his direction for emphasis. Then he turned back to Jim, examining his face a little more closely. "And why do you look like you tried to catch a wall with your face? You didn't provoke him again, did you?"

The tensing of Spock's shoulders was subtle, but still noticeable to Jim, who had immediately glanced over at him when the question escaped the doctor's lips. He frowned. "Nah, I just ended up going a few rounds with some asshole in a bar," he insisted. Then he smiled, a little bit amused. "It's funny you should mention walls, though. When I called my mother she asked if I'd walked into one." When he glanced over at Spock again he seemed to have relaxed marginally. Dark eyes briefly met his own, sharing the silent joke.

Bones just looked confused. "…Alright," he said, nodding slowly in the manner of a man who's just realized that he's in a room full of lunatics. "Say, Jim. How hard did you hit that head of yours?"

Jim rolled his eyes. "The bar fight was _after_ the sight-seeing," he replied, cutting straight to the chase. Bones gave him a bland look.

"You sure about that?" he asked. "Because things can get a little fuzzy upstairs when you've been knocked around."

"Doctor," said Spock, breaking in. "Are you implying that an individual would be required to suffer some form of head trauma in order to willingly spend their shore leave in my presence?"

There was a long silence. Between any other three people it might have seemed awkward, but Jim found that there actually wasn't any real tension in the air. It was almost like they were participating in some kind of odd sporting event, where there was clearly a point and a goal and some kind of competition, but no malice.

"Yup. That sounds about right," Bones agreed after some careful deliberation.

Spock raised an eyebrow at him. "Your hypothesis is most illogical, in that case, given that the captain was suffering no injuries when he approached me in the shuttlebay shortly after we disembarked from space dock_,_" he said evenly. "Unless you are claiming to have been remiss in your duties as Chief Medical Officer, given that any injury he sustained prior to that point would have occurred under your supervision?"

Bones' jaw dropped. "What?" he said, looking between the two of them. "You mean you two've spent your whole damn vacation so far with one another?"

"Indeed," Spock confirmed, before Jim could a word in edgewise. "It is our intent to spend the remainder of our shore leave together as well."

If Jim hadn't known any better, he might say that Spock was almost _gloating_. He leaned against the desk again, sitting back to watch as Bones sputtered and professed disbelief, and his first officer calmly, methodically, and logically goaded him, pressing all of the right buttons in a subtle effort to incur an almost volcanic emotional outburst.

_Huh,_ Jim thought, watching the two of them bicker like little old ladies. _It's like they're both trying to get as big a rise as they can out of each other._

Once again, though, he found himself a third party to his own transmission. A little bit put out, he went back to fiddling with some of the decorations on the desk. He only stopped when he realized that the conversation going on around him had halted.

Looking up, he noted that both Bones and Spock were watching him now.

"Is he _sulking?"_ Bones asked, referring to Jim in the third person even though he was _right there_ and now looking _directly at him_.

With an annoyed huff Jim leveled an accusatory finger at him. "You know, Spock's right. You really are too much like my mother," he said.

On that note, he cut off the transmission.

---

**Author's Note:** I've got the day off, so you all get an earlier update than usual. This one's dedicated to everybody who's reviewed, you guys are awesome! You can have all the puppies and cookies you want, so far as I'm concerned. Now, to get the ball rolling on chapter eight!


	8. Chapter 8

Bones would have been pleased to learn that the 'goddamn space dust' had not, in fact, stuck around to produce some kind of lethal virus onboard the ship. When Jim had finally hammered his way through the various Starfleet channels he needed to in order to get a progress report, he learned that the repairs were going according to schedule – which was actually a little bit shocking. No major delays or disasters had occurred, and the estimate for their work time seemed to be _accurate_.

He might not have been a captain for very long, but even he knew that was kind of odd. Good, but odd.

"Why do I feel like they must be trying to trick me?" he asked rhetorically as he looked over the information he'd been given. Spock answered him anyway.

"I would surmise that it is because Starfleet has so far demonstrated an equal amount of distrust towards your own capabilities," he said.

Jim was reading, so it actually took him a minute to realize what Spock had just said. Once he had, he turned to look at him, feeling nothing short of genuine confusion. "What?" he asked.

"Your mistrust in Starfleet," Spock clarified patiently. "It seems likely that it would stem from their equal mistrust towards you. An unbeneficial, but mutual, lack of confidence," he explained. Seeing that Jim still didn't have much idea of what he was referring to, his eyebrows raised slightly.

Suddenly Jim felt like he'd been some kind of idiot without realizing it. "You're saying Starfleet doesn't trust me?" he asked before he could stop himself. It wasn't really that unreasonable of a question, though, was it? After all, he was a decorated hero, and they'd given him command of a starship. Generally one didn't give captaincies to people they didn't trust. Even when those people were reckless trouble-makers like James T. Kirk.

Spock hesitated for a moment before answering him. "There has been a distinct level of wariness from the majority of admirals over your competency. You are quite young, after all, and have earned a reputation for flouting the rules. Neither of those qualities have endeared you to Starfleet's general administration," he explained reasonably, and Jim was given to the surreal thought that it was like Spock was trying to tell someone that their outfit was ugly as all hell without actively offending them.

Of course, it didn't work. That never does.

"Then why'd they promote me?" he asked. "And how do you know about this?" He was trying to sound – well, actually, he wasn't sure what he was trying to sound like, or which of the myriad of internal responses to this little revelation were showing through. He was angry, but he wasn't angry at Spock. He felt annoyed, and confused, but not exactly skeptical either. He was used to being underestimated by people. Mistrusted, too, although for some reason that bothered him more.

Spock was difficult to read, but that was fairly normal. More normal than Jim having trouble sorting out his _own_ emotions, anway. "Your promotion to captain was a logical decision. The _Narada_, in addition to its other crimes, was responsible for the destruction of a large portion of the fleet. Your role in Nero's downfall placed you in a position of praise and demonstrated your considerable skills for improvisation and clear-thinking, even in crisis situations. You are aware of these factors, Jim," he added the last part almost as a question.

"Well… yeah," Jim agreed. He _had_ known that those were the reasons why he'd gotten his command, but his focus had been a little more on the 'improvisation and clear-thinking' skills than the 'oh shit, we ran out of captains' part. He'd been laboring under the idea that – more or less – he'd 'shown them all'.

Hadn't he?

"But I thought those were the things that _got them to_ trust me," he admitted.

"They are the factors which earned you a captaincy," Spock agreed, a little evasively. "But only your continued proficiency in the enactment of your duties will assuage their remaining doubts. It is my opinion that their insecurities are misplaced. However – I will confess to possessing my own concerns as to your leadership abilities in the past."

Jim leaned back in his seat, shooting the computer console an unpleasant glare. It was meant more for Starfleet in general than the console in particular, although now that he thought of it, the thing might as well be cursed. "Well I know that," he said, in answer to Spock's admission. "You tried to have me thrown off the ship for mutiny. It was a very memorable experience."

There was a brief, uncomfortable silence. Jim glanced over to Spock to see that his first officer was avoiding his gaze. "I believe you will find that, technically, such activities would qualify as concerns over your abilities as a subordinate. It is not possible to accuse the ship's captain of mutiny, after all."

He let the implication of that statement sink in.

For a guy who'd spent half the morning apologizing, he sure seemed ready to start in on offending him again. Jim wasn't completely certain as to the emotion his face was expressing, but whatever it was it wasn't happy, and it sent Spock backpedalling immediately – albeit in a very calm, reasonable fashion.

"I was merely endeavoring to answer your question, Jim, not to throw aspersions on your leadership skills, or imply that they are still a source of personal concern. Upon taking up my post as first officer I was as yet unconvinced of your ability to command a vessel outside of dire circumstances. When you subsequently proved to be more than competent at handling the day-to-day proceedings of the ship, I abandoned such doubts as invalid," Spock immediately explained. "However, because of them I was at first keenly observant of the manner in which you performed your duties. That is how I gained my insight to Starfleet Command's own apprehensions."

Spock's response left Jim feeling a little less insulted. After all, he couldn't exactly blame the guy for being nervous about whether or not he could pull off being a captain _every day_, and not just when Romulan miners from the future were trying to blow up planets. Jim himself had been pretty nervous too, although he'd covered it in his usual layer of bravado in front of the crew.

Actually, he still was pretty nervous. But that was beside the point.

"How do you mean?" he asked vaguely, but Spock seemed to follow the direction of his question all the same.

"In my past experiences with Starfleet, prior to the Nero incident, I had opportunity to observe the day-to-day processes of a starship on duty. While some discrepancies could be accounted for by the fleet's reduction of resources, by comparison to an average Constitution Class vessel, the _Enterprise_ is required to provide Starfleet with approximately forty-percent more data and information regarding its missions and conduct." Then, almost as an after-thought, Spock added: "when I made inquiries as to the source of this alteration to standard procedure, it was requested that I maintain silence regarding it."

Jim gaped at him.

"They told you to shut up about it?" he asked, standing up and pacing away from his chair as a sudden burst of agitation ignited in him.

Spock inclined his head. "A more simplistic phrasing, but sufficient," he agreed. "I apologize for not appraising you of the situation sooner. However, I had thought it better to err on the side of caution, and assumed you would deduce the reality yourself. I neglected to take into account your inexperience with administrative regulations," he admitted.

Confused again, Jim looked over at him. "You would have told me _sooner?_" he asked, incredulous. Spock gave him a look which plainly read 'of course'. "But… if they're Starfleet orders…" he trailed off uncertainly. Not that he had anything against circumventing orders, when the situation called for it. Spock, however, was not someone he would consider likely to go against them, and as many revelations as Jim had been having about the man he didn't think _that_ had changed.

_Is it emotional?_ Jim wondered, being struck suddenly by the notion that, of course, there were emotions _other_ than rage which could compel his first officer into odd behavior. But Spock didn't look like he was hanging on by a thread.

"Technically, they were not orders," Spock replied. "I believe this close scrutiny of your command decisions is 'unofficial'. I must apolo-"

Before he could finish the word Jim cut him off, raising a hand and pointing directly at his face. "Don't say it," he instructed, even as a pair of perplexed eyebrows rose considerably. He was tense and unhappy. But he was reserving his negative sentiments for his employers, and he'd had enough apologies from Spock already without having him make a habit of it. If anything, Spock had just done him a tremendous favour.

When it seemed like his first officer had gotten the message, Jim moved away from him again, running a hand along the back of his neck. It wasn't like this was really a _problem_, per se. He hadn't done anything that would get him in trouble – in fact, he'd being doing his utmost to live up to his position as captain.

But he'd been doing that because it was _his_. Because he earned it, and wanted it, and couldn't stand to ruin it. He hadn't been operating under the assumption that he needed to keep his ears clean or else the higher-ups would come down on him. But now, knowing that he'd been under closer-than-normal scrutiny, he felt like – like…

Like that didn't matter. Like he might _as well_ have been doing his best because he was 'being watched', and not because he genuinely wanted to.

Those assholes.

Was that how it looked to the crew? How many other people had noticed this? He frowned, thinking of the officers on board who were more experienced than himself, or Bones, Scotty, Checkov, or Sulu – the crewmembers he was on the friendliest terms with. Did everyone think he was – he was _pandering_ to Starfleet in order to keep his prestigious job?

He felt like such a tool. He could just imagine those snide old bastards behind their desks, patting themselves on the back for keeping such a tight lease on their reckless young 'hero' captain, since it had _obviously _improved his behavior. Yeah, wasn't he just shaping up nicely under their supervision.

It had been a while since Jim felt the itch to do something completely stupid. Apparently, however, it wasn't an impulse he'd rid himself of.

"Jim," Spock said, and Jim realized with some surprise that, for a second, he'd completely forgotten that Spock was still in the room with him. "You have no cause to be apprehensive. Your conduct so far has been exemplary."

For some reason, hearing him say that just seemed to make it worse.

"Did you think it?" he asked, striding over to her placid first officer. He wasn't mad at Spock. But that didn't seem to stop him from directing some of his agitation towards him. "That I was just 'behaving' myself because they were keeping their eye on me?" It was a possibility. After all, hadn't he said that he thought Jim knew?

Spock's expression was vaguely concerned. "I did not," he replied after a moment. Jim paused, regarding him carefully. But the only thing Spock did was meet his gaze easily, and elaborate. "Your record has already indicated that you give little weight to the esteem of authority figures. I would not expect an advancement in rank to alter this."

He didn't see any trace of patronization or duplicity in Spock's answer. Satisfied, he turned away again, tapping one hand against the side of his leg as he tried to suppress the buzzing urge to just run out, to find something fast and risky or loose and easy and let himself go. _I don't want to be that guy anymore,_ he reminded himself, but the resolution seemed a little more hollow now.

When Spock voiced his concerns, he sounded genuinely perplexed. "Is that the source of your distress? You are concerned about your 'reputation'?"

Jim stopped moving, considering the question. _Was _that it? He'd never thought much about his reputation… well, okay, maybe a little. But not to the point where he got all worked up over it. He wasn't _pleased_ with being considered a delinquent, after all. Not that he was ready to become a regulations-abiding model of pristine conduct, either.

In the end, he answered Spock's question with one of his own. "Why did you join Starfleet, Spock?"

He turned, wondering if he would get an answer, or if his inquisitiveness would be rebuffed this time. Spock was still, watching him and looking slightly on edge.

"It was not my initial intent," he replied after a quiet moment of consideration. "I had applied for the Vulcan Academy of Science, as my father encouraged me to. Starfleet was a second choice – it was not certain that I would meet the rigorous standards set forth by the Academy. Providing myself with options seemed prudent," he explained.

"And they wouldn't let you in?" Jim asked, feeling oddly disappointed. That was it? Spock was in Starfleet because he wasn't good enough for his first choice?

Damn. He didn't think he'd want to meet an actual Vulcan scientist.

But Spock tilted his head in a distinctly negative gesture. "No," he replied. "I passed the Academy's tests."

Baffled – and momentarily distracted from his internal drama – Jim asked, "Then why didn't you go there?"

"Several reasons," Spock answered. "When I was presented to the panel for their verdict on my admittance, I weighed my options, and realized that the Academy could not offer me the same opportunities as Starfleet."

"What opportunities?" he immediately pressed, knowing that he might be pushing too hard but unable to reign in his curiosity right then. Spock stiffened almost defensively. But, with only marginal hesitation, he answered.

"I… felt that I had experienced much of what my Vulcan heritage had to offer," he said, looking a little uncomfortable. "In Starfleet I would be able to…"

When Spock just seemed to trail off, Jim looked at him curiously. His gaze was locked onto one of the walls, distant and detached, as if his focus was aimed inward. There was tension around his eyes, and one of his hands was repeatedly flexing its fingers.

Realizing at once that he'd struck a nerve, Jim hesitated, wondering if he should drop it or re-focus Spock's attention. _Shit,_ he thought. _Way to go, Jim. Didn't you tell him earlier that you were going to try and help __**keep**__ this sort of thing from happening?_

"Spock…"

"It was my mother," he said at last, clasping his hands behind his back in a pose which Jim was familiar with. He often walked the bridge like that when he was deep in thought. "I joined Starfleet because I was not ashamed of my mother. I saw no logic in considering the woman who had provided me with my existence a liability. It occurred to me that if the perspectives of the Science Academy were so out-dated that they would adhere to a concept of blanket Vulcan superiority, then perhaps their reputation was undeserved."

His gaze was stony, eyes not meeting Jim's as he spoke almost in a rush.

_He's losing it,_ Jim thought, his own turmoil momentarily forgotten as he watched his first officer stand there, clearly trying to get a hold of himself. He could almost count the beats between Spock's breaths, even and deep as he exhaled in a pointedly rhythmic fashion.

Jim didn't know what he could do to help. He had no clue about meditation. But maybe if he distracted him…?

Well, in his experience distractions were usually a good way to go. He cleared his throat, his thoughts drifting a bit back to the subject which had prompted him to barrage his first officer with questions in the first place.

"I joined Starfleet so I could out-do my old man," he confessed. Only a brief flicker of his expression betrayed that Spock had even heard him. Slowly, Jim took a step forward, hoping to get Spock's attention away from himself. "For a long time I hated Starfleet. I wasn't always sure _why_, but even when I was really small I knew they were to blame for my dad being dead. So I didn't want anything to do with them." He took another step, watching Spock's eyes.

"Then, a few years ago, I got into a tussle with a bunch of cadets in this dive I used to hang around," he continued. "I met Captain Pike – or, well, Admiral Pike now, I guess."

Surprise flickered briefly over Spock's features. His gaze darted towards him. At some point Jim's hands had gravitated upwards in the universal gesture of 'calm down'. He didn't think it would really help, as such, since Spock was clearly _trying_ to get a hold of himself, but the posture was instinctive.

"And I thought, 'great, some big-shot asshole from space is going to lecture me for beating the shit out of his lackeys'. I was surprised when he mentioned my father," he admitted. "But even then, I didn't like him, or care much about what he had to say. It wasn't until he told me this one, little thing that I really got to thinking about it."

He was just standing there now, with no idea if this was working or not.

"He said, 'your father was captain of a starship for twelve minutes. He saved eight-hundred lives, including yours. I dare you to do better'. And you know, I didn't give a flying fuck about Pike, and I didn't really care about saving lives. But I thought – there's an idea," he confessed, his throat going a little dry as he spoke. Damn. Had he told this to _anyone_ yet? "If I can become a bigger legend than my old man, then nobody's going to see him when they look at me anymore."

Well. Now he had.

Jim shook his head at himself. "Really noble, huh?" he asked, lowering his hands and his gaze as he lost himself in thought for a moment. Silence stretched between them, long and deep.

For several minutes, the only sound in the room was the distant hum of the environmental systems, and breathing.

"Perhaps not," Spock replied. He looked up. Though still seeming tense and unusually stiff, his first officer no longer looked like he was fighting a desperate battle to maintain his own composure. "I believe I understand now, however. Whether or not nobility was a motivating factor in your decision-making process, you desire to acquit yourself with such a trait, to ensure that you create a legacy worthy of genuinely surpassing your father. But if you are considered _solely_ a figure-head, then you will have accomplished only your most superficial and least flattering of aims – to surpass him in reputation alone," Spock reasoned.

Still wary of his friend's emotional state, Jim hesitated a moment, and then nodded in agreement. "I guess so," he said, unable to dispute Spock's assessment. "I just don't want people to think I'm doing any of this because I'm being kept in line, or because I care about what Starfleet thinks of me."

"You would not have them misperceive their authority over you."

"Yes!" Jim agreed. "Exactly!"

"Particularly because they actually are in a position of authority over you," the half-Vulcan added dryly.

Okay. So maybe when he put it like that it sounded a little ridiculous.

"Jim," Spock said, relaxing his arms a little so that they rested gently at his sides again. "I do not doubt that many people labour under misconceptions about you, particularly in regards to your motivations. However, only an individual who was unfamiliar with you in every sense would consider that you were adjusting your conduct to be in accordance to Starfleet regulations out of fear of reprisal."

The sentiment was genuine. A logical assessment on Spock's behalf of how the crew was likely to perceive him. Jim warred between hanging onto his outrage, or letting it go for the time being.

He inhaled, and then exhaled. _Damn,_ he thought, _Spock must be rubbing off on me. I keep holding back._

This time, however, he didn't think he would just let things slide in the long run. But for the moment he fought back the impulse to do something idiotic, or to throw an angry fit. It was _still_ his captaincy, after all. No matter how many factors seemed to conspire to try and ruin it, he wasn't going to let them – hell, if he could stop _himself_ from messing this up, then stopping someone else from doing the same should be easier. Even when it wasn't. _If I'm not going to lose this, I'm sure as hell not going to let someone steal it from me, either_.

That could wait until they were in San Francisco, however. He turned to Spock. "Are you alright?" he asked, noting the lingering tension in his stance.

After a moment, Spock nodded. "I have my composure," he replied, before moving to gather up his things. "We should depart."

That was probably a good idea, Jim silently agreed. He slung his own bag over his shoulder, keeping one eye on Spock as they made their way out of the building for the last time, and down the street to the nearest shuttle station.

"You know what really pisses me off about this whole idea, though?" Jim asked, one eye fixed on his traveling companion. Spock glanced at him, his expression betraying only a modest amount of curiosity.

"I do not," he admitted.

"It means that all of this time, they've _intentionally_ been giving me **extra **paperwork."

Spock raised an eyebrow at him. "Indeed," he agreed, clearly not quite seeing where this was going. Jim let out a frustrated growl.

"I _**hate**_ paperwork!" he explained emphatically, startling an elderly woman who was passing them on the sidewalk. But come on. It truly was the worst part of his job, and now it turned out that he'd been doing forty-percent _more_ of it than he actually had to? There were professional torturers who ought to consider taking some tips from Starfleet. "Do you have any idea how boring that shit is? And the way they phrase things, it's always 'article' this and 'regulation' that, with numbers and letters and 'referring to blah blah blah of section blah of the treaty between Jerkass and Moron'. Like it would kill them to just have a 'Did you violate the Prime Directive? Check Yes or No' question. Bastards."

The corners of Spock's lips twitched ever-so-slightly again, and for a moment Jim felt pleased. Then he saw something out of the corner of his eye.

He hadn't thought much about the young man trailing along behind them on the sidewalk, presumably also en route to the shuttle station from the traveler's facilities. After all, it wasn't like it would be unheard for more than one group of people to move between the two locations, and he'd had other things to focus on. It was pure luck that he turned his head in just the right direction to note the odd position of the guy's hand, and managed to do a double-take which confirmed that, yes, he was holding a phaser.

It was aimed at Spock.

What happened next passed very, very quickly.

There was no good cover, and Spock hadn't noticed. Grabbing his first officer's arm, Jim hauled him bodily towards himself just as a beam of glaring, orange-red light streaked through the air where Spock's torso would have been an instant ago. The young man hastily moved to take another shot. Thinking quickly, Jim kept his hold on Spock and pulled them both out into open traffic, biting back a curse as horns blared and one hovering bike clipped his shoulder, tearing open the fabric of his jacket and producing a little streamer of red blood. He ignored it, using the rush and confusion of the vehicles as cover until he and Spock could get to the other side of the street. Shouts of protest and alarm trailed behind them as the young man hectically shot in their wake, his phaser hitting the sides of cars and leaving scorch marks on the road.

On the other side of the street, the buildings weren't so tightly packed together. The pair swiftly ducked into the dark space between two, a familiar 'hiss' and an explosion of sparks punctuating a near-miss not far behind them.

"What the hell is he shooting at us for?!" Jim demanded of the universe in general, Spock behind him as he moved to peer back out at the street and see if they'd been followed. A firm grip around his wrist stopped him, however, and instead he found himself being dragged further back into the narrow alley.

"It seems unlikely that his motivations are logical," Spock said curtly. There was another hiss and blast against the wall near their cover, but the sound of sirens had filled the air, heralding the fact that their brief altercation would soon be over.

It probably would have made things easier if the alley had run all the way through, but it was walled off at the end. With only a limited view of the street outside, and with Spock's grip firmly disallowing him from sticking his head out for a look, Jim felt trapped. Any minute now the maniac could come sauntering over, stand in the mouth of the gap, and shoot them down like fish in a barrel.

Well, he'd been raring to do something dangerous and stupid earlier, hadn't he? "Let me go, Spock," he said, giving the arm in his friend's grasp a gentle tug. "I've got an idea."

Spock gave him an assessing look.

"How likely is it that your 'idea' will get you severely injured or killed?" he asked bluntly.

Jim thought about it.

"… Not _very…_"

"No."

"Oh come on! 'Not very' is actually pretty good for me!" Jim wheedled, attempting to crane forward and see out of the alley again. Spock's hand tightened, dissuading him.

Whatever his plan had been, Jim never got a chance to showcase it, as a flash of red and blue streaked past them and the blare of sirens filled up the alley with a cacophony of noise. It occurred to Jim that, so far, he'd actually seen a lot of Toronto's robotic police force. They looked only marginally different from Iowa's, though, so it wasn't terribly new or interesting.

The sound of phaser blasts started up again, accompanied by the filtered tones of the mechanized law enforcement officers as they demanded a cease to all fire, and the identification of their assailant. A panicked, shouting male voice followed soon after, and Jim was finally able to observe the proceedings as Spock released his hold and moved forward. Together they peered cautiously out into the street.

The young man was in restraints and cursing up a storm, red-faced and spittle flying from his lips as he ranted about betrayal and invasion. Jim glanced at Spock, the shared, silent conclusion of 'lunatic' running between them. Seeing as how he was an unarmed and apprehended lunatic now, however, they both emerged from their cover, Jim riding slowly down from his sudden burst of adrenaline and starting on the path to just being pissed off.

Spock was stiff as stiff as a board, his motions minimal and his breathing somewhat ragged.

"Wait here," Jim advised, curling one of his hands into a white-knuckled fist. "I'll handle it." Then, without waiting for a response, he set off back down the street, towards the chaotic stretch of road that was filled with hastily stopped vehicles and blinking police lights. He made his way over to the nearest officer, keeping one eye on their restrained attacker all the while. Now that he had a chance to get a good look at him he noted that they guy really was quite young – he couldn't have been much older than Checkov. Maybe even a little younger.

"Citizen. Are you here to register yourself as a witness?" the officer asked, once he'd drawn near. Jim resisted the urge to roll his eyes. Robotic cops – sure, they couldn't die in duty, and it was impossible to bribe or intimidate them, but they weren't exactly rocket scientists.

"Almost, genius," he replied. "My friend and I were the ones he started firing on. I should file a statement with you."

They _could_ have skipped out on it, but sooner or later a human detective would look over the case, and then there'd be people hunting them down and bothering them – it was just easier this way.

"If you have sustained any injuries, I will be able to procure a medical service unit," the cop said automatically.

Jim raised a hand. "We're both fine," he said, ironically causing the injury on his shoulder to pull unpleasantly as he did so.

"Very well. State your name…"

Even though he'd rarely ever been on this side of the process before, Jim knew the drill. He started listing off the relevant information, knowing that the officer was recording it all internally, and would later enter it into a much larger database. Not far away several other cops were monitoring the whack-job as he was administered a hypospray full of sedative.

Jim made a mental note to ask Spock if he had a habit towards bad luck on his vacations. If you combined that with Jim's own ability to attract trouble, it might explain why they so far hadn't managed to pass a day without being attacked.

Once he'd been medically calmed down, the officers and the physician managed to coax a name out of their phaser-happy subject.

Jim frowned when he heard it, something niggling at the back of his mind. Then it clicked. The guy's last name.

Oh, _shit_. It made a weird, insane, utterly distasteful kind of sense now.

"You son of a bitch!" he swore before he could stop himself, breaking off in the midst of his statement. He marched over to where the young man was being held by one of the police cruisers, furious and distinctly intimidating in that fury, although he wasn't consciously aware of it. "That asshole message wasn't enough? You had to come out here with a phaser just to prove beyond a shadow of a doubt that you're a real psycho?!" he demanded, slamming his hands down against the cruiser and causing his former assailant to flinch in drugged discomfort at the noise.

"Go to hell, traitor!" the young man groggily replied, his eyes glassy and his words slurring. "Fucking traitors, tainting us with your alien fucking. Just like the freak's bitch mother!"

Jim wasn't sure when Spock had followed him over. He hadn't been aware of his presence until there was a sudden scuffle of activity, and their attacker was pinned sharply down to the police vehicle with a distinct 'bang', an iron-strong grip curled around his neck. The physician reeled back in shock and the robotic cops focused in on the very, very angry half-Vulcan who was now choking him.

"Spock!" Jim called, abruptly concerned that his first officer was about to be stunned into next week. There were about half a dozen police officers there. He moved forward, gripping the arm which Spock was using to slowly choke his own cousin and ducking his attempts to fend him off. "Let him go! It's not worth the shit you'll get into!"

"Cease your assault, citizen, or you will be stunned and detained," several mechanical voices intoned in unison.

Moving quickly he slid his fingers over Spock's, futilely attempting to pry them loose and ignoring the panicked gasps coming from the neck beneath them. "Spock," he said again, by necessity standing close enough to talk almost directly into his ear. "Let go."

He didn't know if it would work. After all, unlike Sarek, Jim didn't have years of authority to help him get through the roar of anger pounding in Spock's veins. But as his fingers looped around his first officer's the grip slackened marginally. Lest the opportunity be lost, Jim pulled Spock's hand tightly into his own and drew it away.

For a moment he felt the shift of warm fingers against his palm. Then Spock snapped away as if he'd been burned, moving so abruptly that it felt like he'd nearly yanked Jim's arm out of its socket in his haste to be free. At first Jim was worried that he'd lunge into another attack, but a quick look at his friend's face convinced him otherwise – he was wearing that half-guilty, desperate expression he'd adopted after he'd nearly strangled Jim himself, humiliated at his own lack of control and doing his damndest to suppress all of it.

"I cannot…" Spock said, pressing the tips of his fingers lightly against his skull.

"It's okay, it's fine," Jim assured him, raising his hands and maintaining a cautious distance – not because he was afraid of Spock, but because he didn't want to crowd him and make it worse.

The physician appeared to be recovering from her shock. She was now watching them both warily as her patient gasped in deep, desperate breaths. "Should he be sedated?" she asked in quiet tones, her question obviously directed at Jim.

"No," Jim replied immediately, before looking over in surprise when Spock instantly contradicted him.

"Yes," his first officer said. "Give me the hypospray, I will do it myself."

Scowling, Jim raised a hand to halt the physician as she moved to oblige Spock. _"No,"_ he repeated more forcefully, his eyes locked on his first officer. He wasn't going to let the man drug himself to get away from his temper. That seemed… wrong. "Just take a minute, Spock, and breathe," he advised.

"I _cannot focus,_" Spock insisted, his voice sounding incredibly frustrated as he glared at Jim, awash in the flicker of police lights and the sounds of the city.

"Yes you can," Jim insisted stubbornly. "Just stop thinking about it."

Okay, so that was kind of bullshit advice, but it was what everyone and their uncle always told him when he was younger and couldn't seem to do something that he'd done a million times before. _You know how to do this, you're just over-thinking it, _teachers especially would say.

Dark eyes focused on him, angry and humiliated and awash in self-loathing – hard to look at. But Jim met them anyway.

"You've done it a million times, Spock," he reminded him. "You've been doing it your whole life. Now – get a hold of yourself."

After a long, tense moment, those dark eyes closed.

Slowly, he breathed.

---

**Author's Note:** Okay, before you all run off to do other things (or review – yay!) I just want to quickly establish, here and now, that there is not going to be a chapter with Spock's POV. Some people have been asking on and off, and I'm sorry to disappoint, but that would be cheating. You're all in the same boat as Jim – if you want to know what's going on in his head, you just have to listen to what he says and watch what he does and figure it out from there.

Oh, and before anyone asks, Spock's psycho cousin wasn't being particularly super-observant or prophetic when he accused Jim of engaging in extra-terrestrial relations. Just vulgar.


	9. Chapter 9

It took Jim a few minutes to talk the robotic officers and the physician into leaving Spock well enough alone, but he managed it. Charisma, unfortunately, never worked well on robots – at least, not any of the ones he'd met – but distracting them with regulations and protocols did. He managed to finish giving his statement and watched them cart off Spock's cousin, all the while keeping the majority of his focus on his first officer, who had found a quiet corner of the sidewalk to stand and breathe in. Once he could finally pull away, Jim walked over to him.

"Spock?" he asked tentatively.

Spock's eyes opened – their expression blank and forcibly reserved. Technically it was a good sign, but Jim didn't like that look.

"Do you need anything?" He didn't know what he could possibly do. But, then again, maybe Spock did.

Once again, Spock's eyes closed, and he took in a long, slow breath before he opened them. "This place is distracting," he said, his voice low and a little shaky. "I require quiet, and solitude."

"Okay," Jim readily agreed. "We can go back to the traveler's facilities," he suggested. They'd have to get their rooms again, but that wouldn't take too long, especially considering that they'd just vacated them not too long ago.

"I wish to leave this city," Spock protested in his strained voice. Jim looked around, taking in the lingering chaos of the street, the noises and lights which were likely aggravating in the extreme to Vulcan senses.

"I'll work on it," he promised, coaxing his first officer into walking with him back the way they'd come. "But I don't think you can ride a shuttle like this."

"You are correct," Spock agreed, walking stiff-legged and blank-eyed beside him. The hand nearest to Jim twitched, briefly, fingers extending towards him before being clenched into a fist. He didn't comment on it, although he wondered what the gesture meant.

Back when he was in the academy there would come a time or two where he'd accuse Bones of 'hovering'. Usually after he'd gotten into a scuffle, or nearly blown himself up in some wild stunt, and either way managed to incur some painful injuries. He'd keep one eye on Jim, walk close, pester him about how he felt – occasionally jump out at him with a hypospray. One time he'd swear the man lunged at him from the bushes while he was just minding his own business, walking the grounds, but Bones insisted that it was purely his imagination. Regardless, it had been one of his more irritating – if _slightly_ endearing – traits.

So Jim was pretty sure that was where he learned it from, as he stuck as close to Spock as was possible without physically touching him, watching his every little move carefully. He gave up on being casual about it after around thirty seconds. A person couldn't really maintain that level of surveillance and be nonchalant at the same time. Or, well, at least _Jim_ couldn't.

Subtlety had never really been his thing anyway.

"Jim," Spock said when they were about halfway back, the tension beginning to show around his eyes again. "While I appreciate your concern, I must request that you do not walk so closely. You are highly distracting."

Immediately, Jim took a step or two away, feeling vaguely embarrassed. Right. Crowding him probably wasn't going to help. He decided that the faint sense of hurt he felt was just the ragged ends of his _own_ nerves starting to show. He fought it back, reasoning that they couldn't afford to have the both of them flying off the handle at the same time.

Damn. Now there was a scary thought. _Note to self, do __**not**__ get drunk with Spock, _he thought, and then immediately wondered if Vulcans even actually got drunk. Which was a good topic to get off of, since he was certain that if they did, it probably led to insults and strangulation. At least, that was going by what he'd seen _so far_ of a Vulcan without their general sense of control.

He glanced at Spock. Should he try distracting him again? It seemed to have helped before, but then that could have just been a coincidence. Spock himself was clearly of the opinion that he needed as few distractions as possible.

In the end Jim decided to keep his silence, and focused on making sure they gave any passersby a wide berth for the rest of the walk back. By the time they got back to the odd, distinctive building he felt strangely exhausted. 'Strangely' because if you actually tallied up his physical exertions so far then he shouldn't be all that worn out. He was _used_ to running around. Then again, he hadn't gotten much sleep, and getting his face smashed in the night before probably hadn't helped.

The friendly Andorian woman who registered the rooms was surprised to see them back so soon. She gave them their same room again with no trouble, though, and shortly afterwards Jim found he had to almost jog to keep up with Spock as he made his way swiftly to the turbolift.

"Jim," Spock said, as the doors whooshed shut behind them. "I have no intention of offending you, but I do require _solitude_ for at least several hours," he said pointedly.

Oh. Right. Jim swallowed a bit before nodding in understanding. "I get it. No problem," he assured his first officer. "Just let me put my bag in the room and I'll find somewhere else to be."

Spock gave no sign of acknowledging his response, which wasn't encouraging. What followed was quite possibly one of the most awkward turbolift rides in Jim's life. His friend was plainly standing as far from him as he could get, eyes closed and gripping the lift's handle very, very tightly. After a second he began whispering some distinctly alien sounds beneath his breath. It was a relief when the doors opened again, and Spock took off in his purposeful, long strides.

As promised, Jim quietly followed him and then dropped his bag just inside the door, turning to leave. He wasn't sure what he would do with himself, but he knew he couldn't say.

Before he left, however, he felt something close briefly around his sleeve.

"Your arm," Spock said, releasing him as soon as he'd gotten his attention. Jim followed his gaze to where he'd been injured, his jacket and shirt still torn and the abrasion starting to scab over. "You should see to it. Then go."

Jim opened his mouth to reply, but just like that Spock turned and stalked away, disappearing into the next room. His response died before it even passed his lips. Instead he found himself lingering in the entryway, voiceless and oddly cold. He slung the jacket from his shoulders, quickly opening his bag to retrieve another one – perfectly content to leave 'seeing to it' at that – and then left.

He jammed his hands into his pockets as he made his way down to the building's lobby, his mind scouring over options on how to spend his time. None of them seemed terribly wise, although quite a few looked appealing. He immediately dismissed the idea of getting drunk – it was never _really_ his favourite pastime, and besides, he didn't think impairing himself just then was such a good idea. Getting into a fight was also right out.

So that left the third option for his usual excursions, which was finding himself 'company'. There was a little restaurant adjacent to the lobby – it served replicated food, but there were people in it, and that was what he was looking for. A little hub of activity he could lose himself in, and where he could maybe track down a pretty woman to take him to her place for a while. There wasn't any need to worry about awkwardness with crew members here, after all. No need to feel uncomfortable with the idea of bedding someone he'd have to see regularly afterwards.

He got himself a drink to nurse and took stock of the small establishment. It was too quiet, he realized that almost straight away. There were only a few people in it, and most of them were clearly in their own pre-established groups. That wasn't likely to change, either, given the setting. He slouched into his seat, tapping against the armrest of his chair rather lazily. What to do about it, though? The obvious solution was to just go somewhere else, but the idea of wandering the city alone was unappealing, for a number of reasons.

Waiting and see if his luck pulled through seemed like a better option, but as the minutes ticked by he found himself getting bored with people-watching. You'd think a place like this would have plenty of interesting people, but Jim had high standards. He started absent-mindedly tapping his foot.

Damn. This was starting to remind him of when Bones would crunch for his testing periods, and Jim would sit outside his dorm room and throw that wonderfully annoying bouncy-ball at his door until he finally snapped and came barging out. He felt like he was waiting for someone. But he still had hours to kill before he could hang around Spock again, and even then, it wasn't like the guy was going to come to _him_.

Well. Maybe he could accomplish something constructive in the meantime. Spock wanted to leave the city – he could try and get them a private car or something. It would take longer than the shuttle to get to San Francisco, but they'd probably be able to leave the actual _vicinity_ of Toronto more quickly. Plus there wouldn't be any crush of people to get on his nerves.

Jim didn't know how a Starfleet captain went about getting a car in Canada, but it couldn't hurt to ask around. He decided to start with the friendly Andorian in the lobby – she was likely to know, and seemed pretty helpful.

The woman spotted him when he came out of the restaurant, and smiled as he walked over. "Is your friend alright?" she asked curiously.

"Yeah, he'll be fine," Jim assured her, hoping that really would prove to be the case. Her expression turned somewhat sympathetic.

"He's Vulcan, isn't he?" she noted, whispering the word 'Vulcan' a bit as if it were an uncomfortable thing to say. At his confirming nod, she shook her head sadly. "It's… that's… well, I'm sorry."

He looked at her in confusion. "Sorry?" he asked, wondering why anyone should apologize for Spock being Vulcan. If she hadn't looked so earnest and friendly he might've gotten offended.

"You know… about their homeworld," she elaborated. Then she sighed, antenna moving in patterns which Jim presumed conveyed some sort of mood. He wasn't well-versed enough in Andorian body-language to be sure. "But I guess you two have been getting that a lot lately. I probably shouldn't have even brought it up."

Jim shrugged, feeling that odd, hollow mood which tended to wash over him whenever he thought about Spock's dead world. "Actually, you're the first," he told her.

She gaped at him. "No!" she declared, as if she couldn't believe that the two of them hadn't been barraged with apologies and condolences from the moment they hit the surface. "Well, I know everyone around here was devastated when they heard the news."

Jim snorted. "Not everyone," he replied darkly before he could stop himself. The Andorian gave him a curious look. So, before he could stop himself, he found the words tumbling out – explaining the reason for their visit to Toronto, the hate mail (he decided to omit the part where he got lost and beat up) and then the attack which had occurred not too long ago. It wasn't a whining dissertation on the unfairness of it, nor a cool, collected explanation. By the time he'd finished he was practically _ranting_, the words expressing a frustration which he so far hadn't been able to vent onto anything. His sweeping gestures and the outraged tones of his voice attracted a small audience of individuals passing through the lobby, but he wasn't paying any attention to them. His focus was reserved for his own temper.

Shock was the best way to describe the look on the faces of his listeners once he'd finally run out of steam.

"That's why you came back," the Andorian noted, looking agitated. "How…! _Ooh_, I hope he gets incarcerated for a very, very long time," she growled, earning a murmured agreement from the other onlookers. The general sentiment seemed to be one of shared outrage – a few people started muttering about how they hoped the force-field on his holding cell malfunctioned and killed him. One man got offended at that, and pointed out that clearly the boy was mentally deranged, and needed psychological treatment.

No one else seemed terribly sympathetic to the idea, however.

"Their planet is destroyed and this boy decides he's going to _finish_ the job? Pah! Humans!" a stocky Tellarite noted. Given that more than half of the people present were human, this was probably not the most tactful of comments. Jim felt his headache coming back as it seemed to signal the beginnings of an argument. It had felt good to rant a little, but now he was starting to regret it.

After a few minutes of this the Andorian woman seemed to have enough. She hit a little electronic bell on the counter until she'd gotten everyone's attention, waving a hand sharply through the air. "Alright, enough, _enough!"_ she said loudly. "If you want to continue this little debate, take it out of the lobby," she advised sternly.

Grumbling, the crowd began to disperse a little. Jim was almost pulled along with them, but he remembered the reason why he'd come here in the first place, and managed to stay put.

"Listen," he said, leaning forward once the onlookers had cleared out. "I was hoping you could help me."

He'd never seen someone pull off looking suspicious and sympathetic at the same time, but apparently Andorians could manage it.

"Nothing crazy," he assured her. "I was just wondering if you knew how a guy could go about getting a car around here…"

With that he explained the general gist of his idea, the concierge's expression shifting to one of understanding, and then consideration as he spoke. When he was through she confessed that she didn't entirely know how a person in his situation would obtain a vehicle. But before he could feel too disappointed, she assured him that she would look into it, and then directed him towards some nearby public computer terminals.

"Why don't you contact your Starfleet people to find out what they know and I'll see what I can do?" she advised, patting him on the shoulder.

He didn't relish the thought of contacting his 'Starfleet people' right then. But he wandered over to the computers all the same, figuring that if he _was_ going to wade through that sea of red tape again, he might as well get started.

A minute later he'd sent out his first transmission and was getting the 'thank you for your inquiry, please wait to be processed' message blinking next to the Federation's insignia. He drummed his fingers on the desk for a while, wondering how long this was going to take.

Probably _too_ long.

…

…Damn, this was boring.

He got up and paced for a while, eyes skimming over the somewhat bland, inoffensive artwork which decorated the walls nearby. It probably made sense to just have abstract, muted colours in your paintings when you ran a place like this. Some alien species could be bothered by the oddest stuff, after all. He wondered if the person who designed the décor had had to read up on a lot of different cultures in order to make sure they weren't intentionally terrifying/mortally offending any potential guests.

Hmm.

Reading up on cultures. Now there was a thought.

Inspired, Jim slung himself back into his seat, bringing up a new window and running a search for information on Vulcan meditation. He didn't think he'd be able to find anything which Spock didn't already know, but at least he might be able to understand what was going on better. He didn't like being left in the dark, with only a few clues on the right way to react or proceed. In fact, he could almost smack himself in the head for not thinking of this sooner.

Unfortunately, it seemed that being tight-lipped about themselves was one of those all-around Vulcan traits. Despite the fact that they were the first alien species to make contact with humanity, there really was an almost shocking lack of information about their culture. Most of it was stuff he already knew. Fond of logic, don't like to be touched, think that showing emotion is kind of like dropping your pants in public, have green blood and are three times stronger than humans… jeez. It was like reading a school report written by a kid who'd spent a day watching one.

And that was it, he realized. Most of their information came from humanity's own _observations_ of Vulcans. Culturally, they hadn't shared much about themselves.

He glared at the lines of text in frustration, wondering a bit unpleasantly where the 'logic' was in being private to the point of self-sabotage. What was a person in his position supposed to do? Okay, so, nevermind that there probably hadn't been a _lot_ of people in his position, it was still frustrating. After all, it wasn't like he could just walk up to a Vulcan and ask them. The only Vulcan he knew was Spock, who was… currently… unavailable…

The dull 'thud' of his head hitting the desk drifted across the room. Of _course_. Speaking of things he should have thought of sooner! The only Vulcan he knew was Spock, and fortunately, _there were two of him_.

Who else would have a better insight as to what was wrong with Spock than Spock?

Closing down the hopelessly vague pages of information on Vulcans, Jim got ready to send out a subspace message to the new Vulcan colony. He was so pleased with his sudden realization that it was only when the computer asked him to specify who the message was _for_ that he paused, uncertain. Would he still be going by the name of Spock? He only knew that the man was on the colony because he'd seen pictures of the development, and it had been easy to spot the familiar, lined face here and there.

He frowned as he considered, but in the end just decided to go with 'Spock'. At least the man _himself_ would know who it was meant for, and maybe he could pass it off as a joke, or humans not being able to tell Vulcan names apart, or something. At worst the message just wouldn't get through, right?

Given that there were still people in the vicinity, he decided to just type off a written message and send it out.

_Hey Future Spock,_

_Listen, sorry to bug you while you're all busy with the colony (I saw pictures by the way – looks awesome!) but younger-you is having problems. He says it's got something to do with meditating and using Vulcan as a focus point? Are you having the same trouble or anything? Sorry if you are. Anyway, do you have any suggestions for what I should do to help him? Or if there's something that you know that he could do while he's meditating and stuff then I could tell him, and that way we won't implode the universe or anything._

_Thanks a lot!_

_Jim._

There. That would make sense, hopefully. Given that the older Spock was in all likelihood more experienced with his own Vulcan meditation stuff, he might very well know some techniques or practices that could help the younger one. Jim didn't mind acting as a go-between if that was the case, although he'd have to think of some creative way of explaining how he knew these things to keep Spock from getting suspicious.

Absently, he wondered how long it would take him to get a response as he turned his attention back to his still-blinking Starfleet inquiry. He was pretty sure that, if the message actually made it to him, the older Spock would reply. He seemed to like Jim. That whole period of time in the ice cave was kind of confusing, really, but he _did_ remember that line of bafflingly sincere words – 'I have been, and always shall be, your friend'. At the time it had seemed preposterous to think that he and Spock would be friends. Even afterwards, he'd been fully aware that they were changed people in this timeline; he was a Jim Kirk who had grown up without his father, and Spock had had to watch his mother die and his planet explode. Once or twice he thought about what that _other_ Jim must have been like, but the only thing he could really figure was that he'd been very, very different.

But maybe they weren't _so_ different after all. Now… he could kind of see it.

He wondered if his Spock would have liked the other Jim better.

Abruptly his attention was brought back to reality, however, as his 'inquiry' passed through, and his attention was occupied by inching his way through further layers of needlessly complex text and forms. About an hour into this he made a silent vow that if he ever got to the rank of admiral, the first thing he was doing was _firing_ whoever set up this system.

"Thank you for your inquiry, please wait to be processed."

Okay. He was firing them, and _all of their friends._ At least if the stupid thing could have been honest, he might have felt a little better about it. Instead of the familiar blue-and-green Federation symbol, maybe the screen should flash up a hand with its middle digit extended. That would be a little more appropriate. Although it probably didn't translate into most alien cultures. Well, maybe they could find a suitable translation gesture for the different Federation cultures and set it so that it changed along with language settings.

He laughed a bit at himself when he thought about the look on his crew's face if he set up the systems onboard the _Enterprise_ to do that. Of course, he wouldn't. But it would almost be worth it. Then again, maybe on April Fool's Day? He could always plead cultural significance.

The sound of a soft beeping distracted his attention. For a minute he was confused – then he remembered the message he'd sent. Quickly he brought up the reply signal, and a familiar face blipped into existence on the screen.

"Hey old man!" he greeted almost nervously, surprised – he hadn't expected a video response, or such a fast reply. "You got my message?"

_Of course he got your message, genius,_ he thought uncomfortably as soon as the words had slipped out. But the older Spock didn't seem at all annoyed. In fact, he looked quite friendly, his expression bordering as near to a smile as he'd seen any Vulcan get, and his dark eyes very warm.

"I did, Jim," he confirmed. "It is good to hear from you again, even if the circumstances do not appear to be ideal."

There was something much more casual about this Spock, he decided. More relaxed and at home with himself. But then, he guessed that more than a hundred years would give you time to get used to your own skin.

Clearing his throat he shifted slightly, trying to ignore the inexplicable wave of _fondness_ he felt for the man. It was frankly just odd – he'd never gotten along with elderly people much in the past, and it wasn't like they knew each other very well. Or – not really. Or something.

Dammit. Time travel and dimensions and paradoxes were a pain in the ass.

"Yeah, about that," he said at last, noting almost absently that both Spocks really did have expressive gazes. "Any suggestions?"

Even though his expression didn't really change, he could almost swear that Spock was laughing at him a little bit. "I will point out that your message was notably vague, Jim," he replied. "First you must tell me what has been going on."

Fair enough. After a moment, Jim sorted through his thoughts, and obliged him.

"Well, I guess I should start when he – uh, you – er, no, I'll go with 'he' – mentioned wanting to see Toronto when we were at my mom's house. 'Cause, you know – well, yeah, _you_ know, of course – so anyway, I figured it was as good an excuse as any to skip out early… you know what? That's probably not even important," he decided, getting frustrated with himself for turning into a babbling idiot.

Spock's eyes were smiling. "Perhaps not," he agreed. "Although it is interesting nonetheless. I was not aware that you make a habit of vacationing with my younger self."

"I don't," Jim grumbled. "It's a new thing. Anyways, the point is we came here and, pretty much, something upset him. A few times. So he's been trying to meditate, but he told me that it's not working right. Like I said, he mentioned something about using Vulcan as a focus point? I don't know much about it, but whatever's up, it's keeping him from putting his usual lid on himself," he explained.

Concern showed through on Spock's features, and Jim wondered at how easy it actually could be to read both versions of him, even as subtle as the gestures were.

"Has he become aggressive?" he asked. Jim nodded.

"I would say the answer to that is 'yes'," he replied. "He tried to choke a guy who shot at us, and earlier this morning he called me an 'ill-bred animal'." Which, amazingly enough, still kind of stung even after all of the apologizes and assurances that he hadn't meant it.

Spock's eyebrows went up.

"Indeed," he said. "Why were you being fired upon?"

Jim waved a hand dismissively. "It's a long story." He wondered if he actually _would_ have to explain the whole thing for Spock's benefit. Who knew what tied into that whole 'suppress your emotions' process anyway?

"You will have to recount it for me in the future," Spock said, then, thankfully letting it drop before turning back to the matter at hand. "As to your request for information, I believe I can be of some help. Several of the colonists have suffered from similar dysfunctions in their meditative cycles. The most obvious and effective solution has been for them to transfer their focus of Vulcan to the colony itself."

Jim thought about this. "So Spock should try and meditate about the colony?" he asked.

The elder Spock gave him a patient look. "Jim. He has not even been here," he pointed out. "It would not be a suitable substitute for him."

Frowning, Jim threw his hands up into the air. "Well I don't know!" he said. "Until this morning I didn't even know that Vulcans meditated! And you were the one who said it, not me."

Spock let out a breath and then inclined his head slightly. "I apologize," he said in a sincere tone. "I find it difficult to recall how new this is for you. The point is not the colony – it is the focus. If he is attempting to center himself with a dead world, then it is not surprising that he is unstable," he explained. "Fortunately, our unique physiology provides us both with an obvious alternative."

The internal light-bulb went off. "Oh," Jim said. "I get it. You're saying he should try and meditate with Earth instead."

"Indeed," Spock confirmed. "In my own time I developed a practice of experimenting with such alterations in my meditative formula, particularly after joining the crew of the _Enterprise_," he admitted. "But it would seem that it has not yet occurred to my younger self to try."

"And it works?" Jim asked, feeling hopeful.

Spock seemed to consider his answer for a moment. "It does," he agreed. "But not in the same way. Were it not destroyed, Vulcan would always be a more stable choice of focus point, for a number of reasons. It will take some time for him to adapt to the change."

"So what can I do?" Jim asked. "I mean, I'll tell him about the Earth-focus thing, but is there… you know… some things I shouldn't do, or say?" He was pretty sure he could make the new-focus sound like his own idea. It did seem pretty reasonable. But it also seemed like a long-term solution.

"Be cautious, Jim," Spock immediately advised, to his surprise. "You have always possessed a talent for bringing out my emotions, and if what I have heard of a certain bridge incident is accurate, that has not changed. He could severely harm you."

Jim rubbed a hand along the side of his face. "This again," he said. "Look, believe me, I _know_ the guy's got a strong grip. But I'm not going to run around and try to piss him off, so relax," he assured him.

Spock gave him an assessing gaze.

"Anger is dangerous. But it is not the only strong emotion which can affect an individual," he said enigmatically.

Jim was left to puzzle that over only very briefly before the conversation moved on.

---

**Author's Note:** I love you guys. Now I want a shirt that says 'Spock Will Choke a Bitch'. On the subject of mind-melds, yup, it's gonna come up. Would I abandon a potential gold-mine like that? I think not.

Oh! And my sister is visiting for a while, so my next few updates might be delayed while I goof around with her. Just thought I'd give a head's up!


	10. Chapter 10

The lobby had filled with the amber glow of evening by the time Jim finished his conversation with the elder Spock. His transmission to Starfleet was left neglected and forgotten, completely and utterly unable to distract him from their exchange. A few times someone would attempt to call Spock away from the screen, but he invariably sent them off, remaining seated before him instead.

Jim decided that part of the reason he liked the guy so much was probably because Spock seemed to genuinely like _him_. He wasn't sure how he could even tell, really, except that it was strangely obvious, showing through in the warmth of his voice and the encouraging welcome of his demeanor. _Why don't you call me more often?_ his body language seemed to say, and for the life of him Jim couldn't think of a good reason not to.

They talked mostly about Vulcan meditation. Given that he didn't really know much about even the human forms of meditation, Jim felt a bit like a fish out of water for a lot of it, but Spock was pretty good at breaking things down. He learned that Vulcans had a kind of precision control over their brains which would seem terrifying to most humans. They could consciously commit suicide, for example, which was a startling little revelation. Virtually all of their bodily functions were within their power to command – things which humans had no hope of telling what to do, like their heartbeats. Meditation helped them to organize these complex structures, to keep their minds clear and make certain that their consciousness really _was_ controlling them.

"You mean he could get distracted and forget to have his heart beat?" Jim had asked incredulously at one point. But Spock assured him that, no, unless he made an effort to _stop_ his heart then it would do its job. Which was a relief.

He also learned that one of the reasons why Vulcans were so worked up over their emotions was that their brain was structured differently around them. Whereas a human could feel something like intense rage and – while still feeling that same rage – consciously exert an effort to stop themselves from acting on it, Vulcans apparently _sucked_ at that. It was easier for them to suppress the emotion itself than the actions it compelled – sort of like trying to stop a stream of water from hitting the ground. Humans had a bucket; they could catch the water as it poured. Vulcans, however, did not. If they wanted to stop it, they had to turn it off at the source. Spock, according to himself, had the equivalent to a very crappy, beat-up, tiny bucket, and bad coordination with it.

Jim got the impression as he was being told this that it wasn't the kind of thing you'd tell just anybody. Going off of how little Vulcans in general seemed to share about themselves, he was actually surprised at the depth of insight which the elder Spock was willing to share with him. It silently floored him that he seemed to think he could be trusted that much.

He couldn't help but wonder, though, if the other Spock would be mad. After all – they were _his_ secrets too.

"Are you sure you should be telling me all of this?" he finally asked at one point, unable to escape the question he'd posed to himself. "I mean, it's really helpful, I just don't want to make the other you – you know – uncomfortable about it."

Old Spock raised his eyebrows at him slightly. Then, slowly, he seemed to come to some internal realization, and relaxed. His eyes were very fond when they met Jim's.

"You make a valid point," he agreed.

Not long after that note they ended the transmission, something finally succeeding in calling Spock away from the console. Jim was sorry to see him go at first, but then he realized that his 'several hours' ban from the other Spock's presence may very well have been met. Just the same he got himself a quick dinner from the restaurant before he headed up – firstly because he was hungry, and secondly because it was probably better to err on the side of caution.

The rooms were quiet and still when he walked in. The lights had been dimmed again, the window covers shut, and the faint flicker of candles provided the majority of illumination. He hesitated, wondering if he should wait longer still – but then decided against it. If what the other Spock had told him was true, then he'd probably already interrupted Spock's mediation when he opened the door.

He found his first officer sitting cross-legged on the floor, just where he'd found him that morning. His hands were arranged in the familiar 'V' of the Vulcan greeting gesture, but with his fingertips and thumbs pressed together.

At Jim's soft approach he didn't seem to stir at all, and so it took him a moment to notice that Spock's eyes had opened, and that he was watching him inscrutably.

"So…" Jim said, shifting a little on his feet. "How's it going?" He felt uncomfortable just standing there while Spock was on the ground. After a beat, he decided to hell with it, and sat down across from him.

For a moment they simply sat there, regarding one another. Jim took in the odd scents of the candles, and noted that it was kind of peaceful – but also kind of tense. He wasn't sure if that was just _him_, though.

Eventually, Spock answered his question. His voice was low and soft when he did. "I have had less success than would be ideal," he admitted.

Here, now, Jim decided, was the awkward part. He was good at bluffing. But genuine deception wasn't his forte. However, he couldn't let Spock know that he had spoken to his future self – he wasn't sure what kind of effect that would have, and he wouldn't risk all of space-time over it. Still, this would have been much easier if he could have gotten the two Spocks to just talk with _each other_.

Damn paradox stuff.

"So listen, I was thinking," he began, deciding that there was nothing for it but jump in feet-first. "You know how you said that you were having problems because of Vulcan, right?"

Dark eyes watched him inscrutably. He shifted again – it shouldn't be this _awkward_. He'd spun bullshit over less important and more dangerous subjects before.

"Well, I was thinking," he repeated. "What if you _didn't_ use Vulcan? I mean, obviously it's not really that… suitable anymore. What if you tried meditating with a different focus? Like, say, Earth?" He punctuated this idea with a pat on the floor, as if to indicate the planet's soil far below them.

Spock considered him for a long moment.

"…Such a concept has occurred to me," he admitted. "But it is unsuitable."

Confused, Jim regarded him with open curiosity. "Why?" he asked.

"It is a complicated matter," Spock replied tonelessly, before closing his eyes, as if to pointedly dismiss Jim. "If you require rest, you may remain. Otherwise I would ask that you leave me to further solitude."

_Shut down,_ Jim thought, surprised by this unexpected little wrench in his plans. But the old Spock had insisted that changing the focus would work – so why did his younger self seem so dismissive of the idea? He had to admit, it made sense to _him_. Just simple logic. If something was no longer capable of performing its function, you fixed it if possible, and replaced it if not.

"I'm pretty sure it would work, Spock," he insisted, despite the fact that he'd been all but told to piss off.

Spock's eyes remained closed. "Your understanding of my meditative process is highly limited. I appreciate that it is your intent to aid me, but you are not in a position to do so."

Feeling the beginnings of frustration, Jim curled the hand which was resting against the tight-woven carpet into a tense fist. "Then talk to me about it," he insisted. "You said it doesn't work – tell me _why._ Who knows? Maybe you just need an outside perspective." _Or maybe I have knowledge about how your brain works because your future self just spent the last few hours chatting about it._

That little muscle in Spock's jaw tightened again – he was starting to think that happened when he grit his teeth. "While you are quite intelligent, Captain, this is not something you can comprehend."

It took Jim a minute to recover from the surprise of being called 'captain'. For the past few days, Spock had been addressing him as 'Jim' with seemingly little difficulty.

"You're supposed to call me Jim," he insisted, taking a risk and moving a little closer. "And what could it hurt to try? Okay, so, it's hard to replace Vulcan with Earth-"

"It is _impossible_ to replace Vulcan," Spock snapped, his eyes opening to lock sharply onto him, swirls of badly suppressed anger and hurt dancing behind them.

And just like that, Jim got it.

Spock wasn't even trying to use a different focus point. He couldn't bring himself to do it. "You _won't_ change it, will you?" he said aloud, speaking the understanding which had suddenly coursed through him. "You're afraid that if you let go of your focus on it, you'll never get it back. That if you try and replace it with Earth, you'll lose another tie to your home," he reasoned. And then he summed it up.

"You can't let go of your emotional attachment to Vulcan."

Bright eyes clashed against dark as Jim stared Spock down. The irony of the revealed situation wasn't lost on either of them. He watched as Spock suddenly rose to his feet, in that fluid, unstilted motion of easy practice.

"I must again request that you leave," he said.

Jim remained seated stubbornly on the floor. "I'm not going anywhere. Not until you let me help you."

He wasn't expecting the strong arm which closed around his shirt and hauled him bodily to his feet. He didn't really struggle against it, though – he wasn't purposefully looking to antagonize. He'd never tried to walk the fine line between being stubborn and being an ass before. It was trickier than it looked. "You cannot," Spock said, his voice breaking slightly out of its monotone format. Then he made to give Jim a somewhat gentler shove towards the door, the message of 'leave' written all over his actions.

_No,_ Jim thought, and before Spock's hand to could release his shirt, he reached up to clasp it. "I can try," he said.

Spock yanked away as though he had been burnt by the touch, his expression suddenly darkening and weakening all at once. Then, before Jim could react, he moved towards him. With impressive speed his first officer stepped neatly into Jim's personal space and closed his hands around his upper arms, causing channels of warmth to shoot through his body where his touch had connected. Their faces was close, breathing ragged as Jim reflexively gripped him back, half worried that Spock was going to keel over and half worried that he would attack him. Spock's expression was unfathomable, darkly intense and, for a moment, unguarded. A shudder traveled down his spine, and his eyes widened as he felt a familiar tingle of excitement sing through his veins.

Oh.

Oh, no, no, _no_. It couldn't be. He… they… it really _couldn't_…

But suddenly, it all clicked together. Those little moments. Those inexplicable feelings which just seemed to ambush him, and then vanish before he could pin them down. The way he became almost hyper-aware of Spock when he touched him, and how the man could flay him open with just a few careful words of rejection. It made _sense_ – so much sense that he wondered how he could have missed it.

He was attracted to Spock.

Which was terrifying.

Jim's breath died as those dark eyes met his own, and for one instant he thought that Spock would lean forward, that their lips would meet in a kiss that was certain to sear his mouth. His mind was a jumbled mess of confusion and realization and fear as the second was stretched for all it was worth.

Then Spock threw him across the room.

Loathing and disgust were written clearly across the half-Vulcan's features as Jim hit the opposite wall, the breath knocked out of him for an entirely different reason now. The back of his skull cracked against the hard surface and he saw stars, his back screaming protests at him before he slumped to the floor. He looked at Spock, his own expression the very picture of hurt confusion, but his first officer was still wearing that dark, bleak look.

Jim was terrified. What if he'd… oh, shit, what if Spock _knew?_ Was that why he'd thrown him? He'd somehow been able to pick up on Jim's attraction, and it… it sickened him. He'd known what he wanted, seen him lean forward – had he leaned forward? – and with his emotions so close to the surface, his reaction had been complete.

Utter, instinctive rejection.

He couldn't process this. It was all too much, too soon, and too strange. Raising himself shakily onto his legs, he did something which, in truth, he didn't do very often.

He ran away.

Not looking back, not bothering to risk a single thought, he pelted out the door and didn't stop running until he was safely ensconced in the turbolift. His heart was pounding and his head was swimming as he leaned against the rounded walls, stopping the lift mid-floor as he tried desperately to regain his grip on his own sanity. _What the hell just happened?_ he asked himself, even though he was almost certain he knew. His hands were shaking a bit as he lifted them to his head, wincing at the pain which pulsed through it. It was echoed by a beat from his shoulders, and he had the sneaking suspicion that he would be black and blue along there for a while.

That hadn't exactly been the reaction he'd anticipated. But in a way he was almost relieved that it had been the one he got. Not because he wasn't terrified that Spock hated him now – because he very much was. But no, if it had gone… differently… he wasn't sure how he'd handle that either.

Because it didn't make any _sense_. Spock was his friend! Jim didn't feel attracted to his friends. Seriously, it tended to be a major turn-off for him. As soon as he started to get to know a person, he stopped entertaining ideas of taking them to bed. Besides which, Spock wasn't exactly his _type_. For one thing, he was male – not unprecedented in Jim's experience, really, but a little atypical. He usually went for females, sexually confident – even aggressive – fast, and casual. The sorts of girls who didn't care if he called the next day, or even preferred that he didn't. _That_ was who he went for. Not reserved (or, well, _generally_ reserved) men with narrow builds, pale skin, and dark, expressive eyes. So that part was odd. Not 'never in a million years' odd, just – if you'd put Spock in a line-up a year ago and told Jim that one of the people there would eventually set his blood on fire, he never would have guessed him.

But the part which was almost paralyzing him with fear was that he _liked_ Spock. A lot. He didn't think he could sleep with him and then just cut and run – and he'd never felt that sense of mingled attraction _and_ attachment before.

_You know he'd take that shit seriously,_ Jim thought, leaning the side of his head against the lift's wall and trying to even out his breathing. Provided, of course, that he would ever actually consider Jim in those terms – and it looked like the very idea of it disgusted him.

Well, what else did he expect? It was shocking enough that _he_ seemed to appreciate Spock on that level – hoping for reciprocation was moronic. Because if Spock wasn't his usual type, then Jim sure as hell wasn't Spock's.

He sucked in a deep breath and tried to sort this whole mess out. Okay, so, he was capable of finding Spock attractive – he was probably reading too much into that. After all, it really had been _months_ since he'd gotten laid, and he was practically infamous for his libido. He'd been spending a lot of time with Spock. Granted, that usually had the _opposite_ effect on his hormones, but maybe his system was just all messed up because it had been so long since his last fling.

His eyes slipped closed, and he recalled that look of loathing on Spock's face right when he'd thrown him away.

No way. He couldn't afford to be attracted to Spock – it would ruin everything. He'd lose his first officer. He'd lose his friend. Raising a fist, he pounded it in frustration against the nearest wall. It was just his stupid, goddamn sex-drive that was screwing him over here. He'd been ignoring it before – not consciously, but just taking all of the hints it dropped and blatantly refusing to see what they were saying. But now that he'd noticed, he knew he wouldn't be able to do that anymore. He needed to deal with this situation.

It was the only way he'd get Spock to look at him without that hatred again.

Jim thought about it for a few minutes, and then restarted the lift. Sex – that was the problem. So he'd get it out of his system. He'd go find someone who _was_ his type, and he'd get this – this impulse gone. Neutralize the issue. He was sure now that it was just his over-active libido latching onto the slightest bit of perceived encouragement. But if he could sate that beast, then he could come back and convince Spock that it wasn't a problem. Maybe even that it had never existed. Then he might be able to salvage their friendship.

When the lift reached the ground floor he stalked out, shoulders hunched and head ducked low as he made his way straight out of the building. He felt strange as he hit the open street, the air cold against his skin and his body protesting his movements. It was like he was detached, disconnected from himself. _Why?_ he couldn't help but wonder. Why did he have to ruin every good thing? This wasn't Spock's fault. Granted, the throwing him against the wall and the emotional instability was – even if he couldn't exactly control it – but the thing that was going to ruin them? That looked like it was all Jim. Dammit! Why couldn't he resolve to help Spock and then _actually manage to help him?_ What was it about him that just seemed to like to complicate almost all of his attachments?

His expression was stony as he made his way down the street, eyes trained to find a suitable establishment. Some kind of bar scene, a place likely to have a crush of people looking to escape their daily stresses and let loose. The more crowded the better.

It took him a while to hunt down a suitable place, but once he had he simply drifted inside, not even bothering to read the name of it or pay much attention to its set-up. There was noise and music and alcohol and a suitable buzz of life. That was all that mattered. He made his way over to the bar, and for a moment he hesitated before he ordered his drink – he'd decided earlier that day that he wasn't going to get drunk. But he figured he could bend his own resolution. He didn't plan to go back for a while, anyway.

Picking someone up proved to be a little bit harder than usual, however. Apparently it was trickier when you looked like you'd been knocked around a bit, and your normally charismatic personality had taken a similar beating. Most of the other patrons were warily avoiding him, and so he found himself left largely to his own devices.

The image of Spock's face wouldn't leave his mind, that horrible expression he'd worn, like he couldn't believe that something so _vile_ was actually real. But Jim wasn't **that** bad, was he? Most people seemed to think he was pretty handsome, even if they didn't really go for him. He'd never had to worry about _disgusting_ a potential partner before.

"Vulcans are different," he quoted under his breath to his glass, and downed its contents, trying to chase away that face. Somehow, the drink only seemed to make it clearer. So did the next one. And the one after that.

"It's not working," he complained to a woman as she slid into the bar next to him. At least, he was pretty sure it was a woman – his head hurt, and that made it hard to pay attention. He was only half trying, anyway. "How am I supposed to drown my sorrows when it just makes it _worse?_"

A laugh, kind of bitter but also amused. "I think you're just supposed to wallow in it," the woman replied, now almost definitely female. He looked over at her, and then at the glinting reflection of light in his glass.

"That's bullshit," he noted emphatically. It earned him another laugh, and he winced a bit as the sound grated his ears. But he ordered another drink all the same.

"Hey, you know," his neighbor said, as the bartender set a new, sparkling glass before him. "You look kind of like that guy – Kirk, or whatever his name is. The one who stopped those crazy Romulans from blowing us up."

He downed his glass, the liquid burning and soothing at the same time as it slid down his throat. "Yeah. That's me," he replied, wondering again why everyone seemed to recognize _him_. Spock had been the one who flew his ship into the _Narada_ and almost died. Now, Jim certainly had his own contributions to the whole thing, but Spock was the one who did the really dramatic part. He got the big explosion and everything.

"Sure you are," the woman agreed. "The captain who saved the world is sitting in this bar, getting drunk and doing a bad job of chatting me up. So where's your ship, Mr. Bigshot?" she asked somewhat mockingly.

Jim shrugged. "Space dock," he replied. "It's complicated. Dust was involved."

A snort, now. "Uh-huh. Dust. Well, I'll give you points for being original – I've never heard _that_ one before," she told him, and then her hand came down to clap him on the shoulder. He winced.

A few drinks later, and he'd stopped talking, but the woman next to him kept up something of a conversation with herself. Presumably he was somehow connected to it, although he wasn't really clear on what part he was actually playing. She dubbed him a 'good listener'. You couldn't have gotten him to remember what she'd said if his life depended on it. At some point he started to wonder if she'd brought her twin along, but then his vision evened out again.

Drinking and head injuries weren't a good mix.

Finally, at some point, she made an invitation he recognized. He turned in his seat, and gave her a thorough once-over. Not bad. Kind of tall, with pretty dark hair and a wide mouth.

"Okay. You'll do," he replied, and she smirked at him.

"Gee, thanks," she said, but then her hand closed around his arm – too cold, and too close to where he'd been injured. It was uncomfortable. All the same, he didn't pull away as she led him from the bar, her lips moving close to the cup of his ear, perfumed scent filling up his nose. "Your place or mine?" she asked.

It was her place, of course.

They were a tangle of limbs when they made their way through her door, sloppy kisses and hands made awkward by alcohol and unfamiliarity. What ensued was a desperate, almost pathetic tumble, their voices bereft of encouragement or endearment as they fell into the bedroom and tried to release themselves from their physical urges. Jim buried his face into her dark, dark hair. She called him the wrong name. Neither one of them cared. It was rough and down to business, but it got the job done.

When it was over, Jim felt no better.

Physically sated, yes. But no better.

He wanted to leave, but he was tired and spent, and so instead he gave in to his body's longing for unconsciousness, slipping away atop the unfamiliar sheets and with unfamiliar breathing in his ear.

He woke with a shock hours later, when a glass of cold water was unceremoniously dumped onto his face. He flailed, panicked and disoriented as the water clogged his senses and for one brief, terrifying instant made him think he was drowning as it slipped inside his nose and mouth. With a desperate, sputtering cough he fell off of the bed.

"Time to beat it, sunshine," a rough female voice informed him, and he could only curse blearily behind her as his 'date' sauntered into an attached bathroom and pulled the door shut.

Frowning, he tried to get his bearings past the unrepentant, sharp pain in his skull. He felt like he'd been jammed into a blender. The night before was a disjointed, jumbled blur – but he could remember _why_. That damn puzzle had finally clicked into place, and he'd figured it out. About Spock. And him. And then Spock had given him that _look_ – it was like it had been burned into his mind – and thrown him across the room.

Fun times. Jim pulled himself together enough to shrug back into his clothes, fighting back his nausea and figuring that he must look like hell. He didn't want to stick around, though. He'd done what he needed – he'd gotten it out of his system. But for some reason he didn't feel like he'd be able to look Spock in the eye any easier.

_Tough shit,_ he thought, and then he stumbled out of the door. Even if he hadn't already resolved to go back, his stuff was still at the traveler's facility. Besides – he couldn't just leave Spock alone. The guy was unstable.

It was impossible to retrace his steps from the night before, but luckily, this whole part of the city was still pretty close to where he and Spock were staying. It had been a sound plan, he assured himself, as he ignored the uncomfortable glances of a few passersby and made his way back down the street. He'd try and kill whatever dysfunction it was that made him think Spock, of all people, was a suitable candidate for a role in the sack, and then he'd get back to being his friend and trying to help him out. Because the alternative was giving the whole thing up – and he'd already decided that he wasn't going to do that.

No, this was just a temporary set-back – he'd taken care of it now, he was sure. All he needed to do was convince Spock that things were good, and that he really did need to pick a different focus point for his meditation. Easier said than done, probably, but Jim was good at challenges.

Not the mention the fact that he didn't take well to losing.

When he finally made his way back to the traveler's facility, any doubts he had about how shitty he looked were wiped away by the expression on the Andorian concierge's face.

"Rough night?" she asked, as he wondered why the sun had to be so bright – even when he was _inside_.

He grunted by way of response, ready to just make his way up to the room and let himself run under the shower for a while. It's not like he wasn't already wet, after all. But the friendly woman raised a hand to halt him.

"Hold up," she said, and then walking around the desk, guided him into a plush grey chair. "I'll get you something. Don't go anywhere."

So Jim was left to his own devices for a minute, muttering about how everyone kept man-handling him and bossing him around. _He_ was the captain, dammit. It was about time _he_ started bossing people around.

He decided he would start with his own head. This was the second morning he'd woken up feeling like there was a jack-hammer in his skull, and it was _not fun_. Although he'd take yesterday's headache over this one in a heartbeat. _Stop that pounding_, he commanded his brain.

It didn't work.

His mouth wouldn't stop feeling like he'd swallowed a tribble, either. And then chased it with some steel wool. Damn, what did he drink last night?

_A lot_, his memory offered helpfully.

His head was in his hands when the Andorian returned, her hands gripping a datapad and a tall glass of something bright blue and frothy.

"Drink it," she instructed him, thrusting the glass towards his face. He flinched back reflexively, and then gave it a suspicious look.

"What is it?" he asked, as she grabbed one of his hands and wrapped it around the slick surface.

"Well, it's not a hypo full of detox formula," she replied. "But it's still a pretty potent hangover remedy."

He started down through the top of the glass, watching as a few foamy bubbles blinked and popped in and out of existence. The wisdom of drinking something unfamiliar, as presented to him by a virtual stranger, warred with the compelling idea that it might do something about the carnival of _hell_ which his body had become.

Plugging his nose, he downed the entire thing in one go, and then shuddered at the slime-slick feeling of it sliding down his throat.

"What did you do, anyway?" the concierge asked as he handed her back the empty glass, looking vaguely impressed.

Jim pulled a face. "First tell me what I just drank," he countered. A vile aftertaste was starting to fog up his mouth – and he did mean 'fog'. It was really the best descriptive word for the sensation. But she only gave him a bland look.

"Trust me, you don't want an ingredient list," she informed him. He noted that his head was starting to get a little less heavy, though, so at least there was that. "Did you guys have a fight or something?"

Jim scowled, rubbing at his temples in an effort to speed up this apparent process of pain-relief. "Yeah, pretty much," he agreed, feeling his stomach do an unpleasant flip. He wasn't sure if it was because of the unpleasant memory, or because of the anxious thought of what kind of reaction he could expect from Spock, or because of what he'd just ingested. Maybe all of them.

"You just can't catch a break, can you?" she noted sympathetically.

A mirthless chuckle escaped his lips. "Nope," he agreed. "Not that that's anything _new_," he couldn't help but add.

"Well," she said, her tone rising in a more optimistic fashion as she handed him the datapad. He blinked at it. "At least there's a bit of good news for you – I managed to get you access to a private vehicle."

"No shit?!" he exclaimed happily, and accepted the proffered item with some interest. She gave him a nod.

"After that story you told yesterday, a couple of people wanted to help. You'll have to see that it's sent back here in at least a week, but in the meantime, it's all yours," she explained. Then she gave him a careful assessment. "Maybe you should let the Vulcan drive, though."

Jim knew what she meant by it, but just then he couldn't help the turn his thoughts made onto the concept of Spock with road rage. It wasn't an encouraging idea.

"I'll think about it," he hedged, inwardly resolving that Spock was _absolutely not_ going to drive.

He took an extra minute to let his head clear a bit, then, as the concierge told him rather loosely where to find the car before she left him to his own devices. Once he felt a little more stable, he gathered his resolve, and headed up.

It occurred to him as the turbolift rose that Spock could have left sometime during the night.

He swallowed, hard, as he thought about that prospect. Never even mind his current opinion of Jim, Spock wouldn't approve of his own violent outburst. He could take it as a sign that he'd been completely right about them parting ways. Last time… hadn't he said he'd thought about leaving while Jim was busy?

_Crap,_ he thought with feeling, now almost positive that he'd get to the room and find absolutely no Spock. He was in such a fatalistic mood that he was actually _surprised_ when the doors swooshed open and there he was – just inside the room, putting away his candles by the looks of things.

For a moment Jim simply hovered in the doorway. Spock's mouth was just the tiniest bit slack, and his eyebrows had gravitated towards his hairline. His hands had paused mid-motion.

Indecision reigned. Then Jim broke it, taking a step inside and letting the automatic doors slide shut behind him. _It's just Spock_, he told himself. And it was. But that didn't seem to help the fact that his heart was beating like mad, and his voice seemed to have taken an extended leave of absence. Or maybe the remnants of that hangover fix had just glued his mouth shut. Either way, for a moment he found his mind drifting, for a change, not to the expression of utter disgust which his friend had worn the other night – but to the moment before then, when they had hung to one another, all hot breath and warm hands.

_No!_ he told himself sternly. He was supposed to have gotten that out of his system!

…Well, maybe it just took a while. Or maybe now that he'd _noticed_ that Spock had – was – _could be_ attractive, it was just a little harder to un-notice. For now. But he'd fix that. He wasn't going to ruin this, dammit! He'd never had much experience with unrequited attraction, but he'd tried to deal with people after he'd slept with them in the past. It never went well. Invariably they parted ways on bad terms, disappointed in him and his ways. But even though it was, perhaps, a little strange, he didn't want to part with Spock. Not yet.

Spock's voice broke him out of the strange spiral of his thoughts.

"You came back," he said, as if he couldn't exactly believe it, despite being presented with clear evidence.

Jim stumbled for words inside his mind – a suitable response, something that fit. His gaze flitted briefly over the room.

"I left my bag," he settled for at last. Truthfully, he didn't mean it as it sounded – he meant more in the sense that Spock should have _known_ he would come back, because he hadn't taken his belongings when he left. But the half-Vulcan immediately stiffened, closed off.

"Of course," he said, as if it all made sense now. "I will depart soon. If you wish to linger and… see to yourself, do not be concerned that my presence will impede you."

"No," Jim insisted, taking a step forward and extended a hand reflexively towards Spock. He then caught himself, and retracted it. "I didn't mean it like that. I mean – of course I came back. I always meant to."

Spock paused again, his eyes not quite meeting him. "Why?" he asked, almost under his breath, as if the word had escaped him. Jim swallowed, and then made a face when a fresh wave of that vile flavor hit him. Ug. How long was that supposed to last, anyway? He was starting to suspect that something was breeding in his mouth.

Which was utterly secondary to the current situation, of course, but still a little distracting.

"Okay, look," Jim began, extending both of his hands but keeping his distance – as if he half expected Spock to make a run for it, and intended to stop him when he did. "I'm just going to say some things, and you'll listen, and then we'll talk some more – but first I have to say some things, alright?" he insisted, wincing a bit at the scratchy, uncomfortable sound of his own voice.

Spock just stood there. After a moment, he took it as a sign of consent, and began.

_Deep breaths, _he thought. "Right. Okay. First off – I'm _sorry,_" was his beginning. His first officer's reaction was to look just about as shocked as he had when Jim walked through the door. "Yeah, I know you're thinking I shouldn't say that since you tossed me across the room, but I understand. It's all the funny wiring in your brain – until you get sorted it's hard not to lash out. So I _am_ sorry. I just… I didn't mean to, you know, make you uncomfortable and stuff. I _swear_ I didn't mean anything by it, and I still want us to be friends, and I still really want to help you. And I know – I **know** you don't think I can, or maybe that it's none of my business, but I'm not backing down," he insisted, planting his hands on his hips, even though he knew full well that he probably just looked ridiculous. Disheveled, tired, beat-up and worn down. But he wasn't knocked out of the game yet. "You need help, and there's – stuff – I can find out for you, but please don't ask me how. You're my first officer, and I am not going to replace you, so we've got to do something. You've got to listen, Spock, because it's not working when you try it on your own, and I _need_ you to help me be a good captain. I _want_ you to be my friend."

There was silence once he'd finished, and Jim really wanted to sit down, but he forced himself to stay standing. He had to seem resolute, dammit.

Spock looked at him like he was something that he'd never seen before, and then – surprisingly – averted his gaze.

After a while, Jim found he was getting really tired of seeming resolute. "Well?" he asked, wondering if Spock was ever going to say anything.

"You have completed your requested moment of speech?" he said. Jim wondered if this was the part where he finished off the whole show by saying 'thanks, but no thanks' and walking out the door.

"Yeah," he admitted, resisting the urge to slump against the wall. He felt like he hadn't slept in a week.

"Then," Spock said. "I believe it is my turn to apologize." He finally lowered the candle he had been holding – Jim realized that it had been frozen mid-motion since he walked in. "I am aware that you seem to find such words distasteful. Given that I cannot in good conscience fail to provide suitable repentance for my misdeeds, however, I shall instead force myself from this point to abstain from actions which necessitate them."

It took Jim a moment, but when he caught up with the Spock-speak and realized that he was essentially saying that he didn't intend to go running off, it was his own turn to be surprised. He'd been expecting more of a fight, really. Much more.

Spock clasped his hands behind his back. "I am sorry, Jim," he said sincerely. "Each and every one of my actions the previous evening were inexcusable. I could no longer deny the severity of my situation after I nearly… after I injured you," he amended, and Jim wondered what he was about to say before that. But he didn't ask. "You were correct. In all of your assessments. I had not anticipated your forgiveness – nor do I believe it is merited. My conduct was unforgiveable."

"You weren't…" he began, but trailed off at the expression on Spock's face.

"My instability is also my responsibility. I allowed myself to deteriorate. I refused to pursue alternate, promising solutions to my own dilemma. I compromised myself, and in doing so I endangered the man who is my captain – and my friend."

_I'm doomed_, Jim thought, as his heart leapt into his throat. As soon as the thought came to him, however, he pushed it aside. He liked Spock – he already knew that. He could like him without wanting to jump him, even if now that he thought of it the idea _did_ seem – _no_. None of that. If he jumped Spock, it would not go well. He'd probably get thrown into another wall.

_Kinky,_ his rebellious and perverted half decided.

Oh, **goddammit**!

But _no_, the point was that Spock would not welcome such advances – and Jim wasn't going to antagonize him with them. He was already having trouble. Making it worse would just be cruel in the extreme.

"Spock," he said instead, still keeping his respectful distance. "I'm glad that you've changed your mind about, well, your position on some things, but I really do get it – you've been through a lot. I'm sure plenty of the Vulcans at the colony are going through similar things. You're half Vulcan. You're not a _robot,_" he pointed out reasonably.

If it had been Earth, he wondered, how would he have felt? If Nero had gone after Earth first, instead of Vulcan? If he'd lost his mother… Sam… almost everyone he'd known growing up, good or bad. His whole home, every wide field and tall mountain and sprawling city…

Yeah. He'd be as much of a mess as Spock was. Maybe even worse.

Spock still wouldn't quite meet his gaze, however. "Your assessment is a sympathetic one," he noted.

"I'm telling the truth!" Jim insisted.

"I do not doubt that you are sincere," Spock replied evenly, finally looking up. It took him a moment to figure out what was wrong with his eyes.

They were wet.

Not that Spock was crying, per se. But he looked like his tear ducts were making a sincere bid for it. In fact it was actually a little surreal – the rest of his posture, his expression, it was all perfectly normal. Jim figured he should look away or pretend like he hadn't noticed. That was what he usually did the odd time or two when he saw another guy crying, or near to it. He knew Spock especially wouldn't want him to see. But he couldn't. Because if he did, then it would seem like he didn't want to see Spock's emotions – and he would have to be able to see them, if he was going to help. See them and show that it didn't bother him.

_I can take it,_ he thought. _I'm human. If you ask most Vulcans, all we __**do**__ is run around and be emotional on everything._

"Look, Spock," Jim said at length. "Vulcans are good at suppressing emotions, but they're really shitty at _dealing_ with them. I've done stupid things when I was angry. I mean, I told you about the car, right?" he reminded him. "That wasn't exactly my finest hour. So cut yourself some slack. This is new territory for you."

Spock stiffened slightly. "I would not even be in this position if I had behaved logically from the start," he pointed out.

"Everybody fucks up," Jim replied eloquently. "Even prodigies."

"You are correct. However, my 'fuck ups' remain my responsibility, as do their consequences."

There was a moment of dead and utter silence. The kind which can only be born when someone is trying very hard not to burst into laughter. It was a battle lost before it even began for Jim, as first he snorted, and then he chuckled, and then he had good cause to regret the whole thing as he held his sides and wondered why there was an echo in his head. "I can't believe you said 'fuck ups'," he gasped when he could finally breathe.

Spock tilted his head at him slightly. "Your incredulity is unmerited," he said. "I was, after all, only quoting you."

Jim finally got a hold of himself, pressing his palm against his forehead to try and stop the ringing that was now in his ears. "That was _awesome_," he assured Spock. "Do you think you could 'quote me' some other time? Like, say, when we were on the bridge? Or during a ship-wide announcement?"

A raised eyebrow was the only answer he got to his question. "Jim. I believe that is irrelevant to the conversation at hand," he pointed out.

"What? You mean there's more?" Jim asked, straightening up a bit.

"Indeed," Spock replied.

---

**Author's Note:** You guys have got me well-trained. Even though I'm having a blast with my sister, I still felt bad about slowing down the updates – and it's only a day late! Luckily, she's a Trek fan, so she was willing to sit and comment on this with me while I wrote it. This chapter marks the lowest low point in the story – it's all uphill from here. So please don't shoot me. I tried to keep Jim's 'fling' as vague as I reasonably could.


	11. Chapter 11

"Okay," Jim said, feeling somewhat apprehensive about what else there could be to discuss. As far as he was concerned, the majority of their issues had been gone over – apologies had been exchanged, it didn't look like Spock was going to run off, and he knew that he _definitely_ wasn't planning on running off himself... "Is this going to take long?" he asked, hoping against hope that it didn't have anything to do with that 'moment-before-the-wall'. "Because, you know, I should probably clean up."

So, maybe he was stalling a little. It was still a valid excuse – if his breath smelled half as bad as it tasted, then he was amazed that Spock hadn't migrated to furthest corner of the room yet.

Spock's gaze flicked over him, and he thought he caught just a hint of distaste in his expression.

Ouch.

"Of course," his first officer agreed. "We may continue our conversation when you have seen to your needs."

With a grateful nod, Jim grabbed his bag and swiftly retreated into the next room. His nerves were jangling. Was Spock really going to… well, call him out, more or less? Maybe try and politely explain that he had no 'interest in pursuing a physical relationship' with him? Oh _damn_ that would be humiliating.

_What, me? No, no,_ he thought as he cleaned himself up, grimacing at the scruffy, vaguely ill-looking face in the mirror. _Attracted to you? Pssh. That was just a fluke. You were completely imagining it. It must have been all that crazy going on in your head, you know, crossed wires and shit. It happens._

…Yeah. No way was he actually going to pull that off. Maybe he could just keep apologizing his way out of it? Convince him that he was working on it, and would resist any and all compulsions to molest him? Because he was, so at least that had _honesty_ going for it.

Was it ironic that he had to suppress himself over a Vulcan?

With a sigh Jim decided it was better just to not think about it for now, and instead focused on his physical issues. It was when he set about the welcome process of cleaning his mouth that he discovered that, apparently, toothpaste and Andorian hangover remedies did not a good combination make. His tongue felt like it was on fire as he sputtered over the sink, desperately washing his mouth out with water in an effort to relieve the sudden burn. He coughed and choked, and then suffered under an unpleasant, nauseous wave and moved to swiftly to unload his stomach contents. They were frothy and blue and distinctly alien, and though he didn't look too closely, appeared to be swirling around with _intent_. Which probably wasn't a good sign - but he'd seen weirder things.

Jim didn't really begin to suspect that something was genuinely wrong until he was on his way out, and the lightness in his head and burning behind his lips had only gotten worse. He felt – off. His skin was cold, even though he'd run himself under a hot shower, and his reactions were fuzzy and muted as he instructed his body to move. _Dizzy_ didn't even begin to describe it when he opened the door, and, with a lurching surge, promptly fell into the room beyond.

His teeth clacked painfully and his head swam as he hit the floor.

"Jim!" he heard Spock say, and his voice sounded strange, as though he were talking through a long tunnel.

"Nnrrngg," Jim replied. He tried to push himself back up, but since the floor was now tilting unpleasantly, he reconsidered that move and decided it would be better to just stay down. He clenched his eyes shut, gritting his teeth as he was hit by another wave of nausea.

A pair of hands gently coaxed him into rolling over, which wasn't the best idea. He tried of fend off the disorientation that hit him full-blast. Spock asked him something. Quick, harsh, important. But he couldn't focus on the words, or find the presence of mind to respond. Instead he wrapped his arms around himself as he began to burn inside – first his mouth, then rapidly his throat, chest, and gut. He could feel the dull thud of his own pulse with almost hyper awareness. But his skin remained too cold – an inescapable paradox of sensation. Hot and cold. It was as simple as up and down, black and white, right and left. Human and Vulcan. The combination was terrible in its juxtaposition, in the way it wanted to tear him in two, or flip him inside-out. Cold which burned and heat which paralyzed. He gasped in desperate, piercing breaths.

He was grateful when he lost consciousness.

When he came to, Jim's first thought was that he had been picked up by his ankles, turned over, and shaken for all he was worth. _Did I pick a fight with a giant?_ he wondered in disorientation. _That was a bad idea._ Distantly, he managed to make out the sound of Spock's voice. He sounded annoyed. _I hope Spock doesn't pick a fight with a giant,_ he thought. But then he immediately decided it didn't matter anyway – Spock would probably win. Unless the giant was really, really big, and didn't have a neck. Sort of like an over-sized potato, maybe, except that potatoes didn't have arms, so it would at least need those.

"Potatoes with arms," he mumbled to himself. Then he laughed, but neither of those things worked right, since his mouth and throat felt all numb.

Spock's voice had stopped now. He would have been worried, but he was starting to get a _little_ more clear-headed, and so the looming threat of a potato-giant was beginning to look less and less likely. He tried to open his eyes. It took him a minute – and once he managed it, he immediately closed them against the pain of the room's lighting.

"Jim?" he heard Spock ask, this time sounding much closer and clearer. "Have you regained consciousness?"

"No," Jim replied, wishing it were true. Then – because he was still quite a bit off, and it seemed only polite to ask – he added: "have you?"

There was a pause.

"Disorientation is a normal side-effect for these kinds of things," an unfamiliar voice insisted, sounding nervous and edgy. "It should pass in an hour or so. Like I said, he'll be _fine_, Mr. Spock."

Curious now, Jim decided to try opening his eyes again. He managed to get one open to just a slit – enough to make out Spock's distinctive frame – and not much more. It was a little hard to tell, but he thought it looked like his first officer was giving someone what Bones had once dubbed the 'Vulcan stink-eye'. It was an expression which Jim was familiar with, having been on the receiving end a fair number of times.

"Given the circumstances, I do not believe that skepticism is unmerited," Spock said in his distant, cool, I-Am-So-Much-Smarter-Than-You voice. "You have already demonstrated that this facility is remiss in its observance of proper protocol and procedure – unless it was your _intent_ to poison him, in which case 'skepticism' would be an insufficient reaction on my part."

There was sputtering, and stammering, and Jim felt kind of bad for whoever Spock was 'yelling' at. But he was also enjoying it just a tiny bit, because quite often that voice was directed at _him_, and it was nice to see someone else under fire for a change. Even if he couldn't really _see_ them, per se. He tried to open his other eye to get a better look, but the brightness was still causing him problems.

"Who poisoned him?" he asked groggily, with the sneaking suspicion that 'him' was, in fact, 'Jim'. Hey, that rhymed! He should tell Spock. "Spock, hey, Spock, _I rhyme_," he managed to spit out with glee before anyone could answer his question, squinting in his first officer's general direction.

Once again, there was a long pause.

"If he has not regained control of his mental faculties within an hour-"

"He will, he will!" the unfamiliar voice assured. "We're running several tests right this minute just to be certain. Believe me, Mr. Spock, your friend will be quite alright. These things happen – especially with reckless young men."

Another pause.

"Er, obviously I didn't mean to refer to the unanticipated allergic reaction to his medication. We try to avoid that whenever possible, and again, it was an honest mistake. The nurse responsible will be formally reprimanded."

_Aw,_ Jim thought. _Poor nurse_. Formal reprimands sucked. He'd already had to do a couple as captain – once to a member of security personnel who was twice his age, and once to a very green helmsman – and they always made him feel like such a dick. "You should let Spock do it," he advised the owner of the strange voice. "Sometimes I do." Which probably wasn't very fair to Spock, but really, he was much better at it. People actually felt like they'd broken a _rule_ when the half-Vulcan took a strip off of them.

"That would not be appropriate, Jim," Spock replied, and some of the bite had left his tone, returning it to its more familiar, neutral cadence as he addressed him. "I am not in a position of authority over this hospital's medical staff."

"Not that that stopped you ten minutes ago…" the stranger muttered under her breath.

Jim tried to look at her, getting only the blurred impression of a medical uniform and identifiably human features. "He can hear you," he informed the professional-looking blob helpfully. Then he tried to raise his hand up to indicate his ears – but for some reason the best he could manage was a kind of half-hearted flop. Spock had good hearing because he had Vulcan ears. Jim liked his ears – they were very curvy and pointy. But something told him that he probably shouldn't say that out loud. No, the ear-liking was a secret. Like when Spock talked about Vulcan-this and Vulcan-that, but he never said _he_ or _I_, because he was half human, but he wanted to be a good Vulcan. It would ruin everything if they both didn't pretend, whether or not they both knew better, too.

"It's a secret," he mumbled to himself, not processing the words which Spock and the stranger were now exchanging. It was followed shortly by the sound of footsteps moving off.

"What is a secret, Jim?" Spock asked him.

Jim frowned. He didn't like keeping secrets from Spock. It felt bad, and mean. But he couldn't tell him – that would feel worse. Maybe he could tell the other Spock? But then, no, that would be bad too, because what if the other-him had had the same secret? Then he'd be ratting him out. Although the other Spock ratted out his Spock, so maybe it would only be fair.

The light didn't hurt so much anymore. He managed to open his eyes all the way, seeing Spock standing over him. "Do you think the me that was the other me liked the other you the way that I like you? 'Cause it's better than if the me that was the other me liked the _this_ you the way that I like you, since he's dead and it would be awkward. But I like the other you even if it's not the same way that I like the this you, so maybe it would be different and not awkward?" he asked in an almost incomprehensible string of words. Then he blinked, and remembered that, no, that was another secret, too. Damn. "Waitaminute. Forget that," he instructed.

Spock raised an eyebrow at him. He was really good at it. Jim wanted to press his thumb against his eyebrow and run it along the dark line, but he didn't think Spock would appreciate it. Jim's own eyebrows never behaved so precisely. They were unruly sons of bitches.

"Perhaps it would be best if you refrained from speaking," Spock suggested. It was probably a good idea. Spock generally had those. But…

"You said we had more to talk about," he argued. Although for some reason he seemed to think that was bad. He couldn't remember why, though – he had fun talking to Spock.

"If your recollection of recent events is returning, then it is likely you will not have to maintain silence for long," Spock replied in even tones. "However, conversing with you will accomplish little until you are able to coherently organize your thoughts."

"Oh." So _that_ was the problem. _Spock_ didn't want to talk to _Jim_. "...Okay then."

Well, it was alright anyway, he was having a hard time getting the words out past the numb in his mouth and throat. For some reason he was pretty sure that toothpaste was to blame there, although he couldn't remember toothpaste making him all numb before. Maybe the toothpaste had been poisoned? But why would a nurse poison his toothpaste? That didn't make any sense. He could ask Spock, but Spock had asked him not to speak. Maybe he could use sign-language?

That would probably be a better idea if he actually knew sign-language. And could move his hands properly. And could remember what he wanted to ask, because he seemed to have forgotten it, now, the idea slipping away like a dream upon waking.

"Do Vulcans know sign-language?" he wondered, before he remembered that he wasn't supposed to talk. Whoops.

Spock tilted his head slightly. But he didn't protest Jim's question, or seem annoyed. Instead he answered it, in that low, quiet voice which should have been boring, but really wasn't. Really, really wasn't.

"Vulcans have many complex hand gestures and signals, so in a sense, we do. However, it is by no means a complete 'language', and would be insufficient for detailed communication," he explained, and then Jim listened as he began to carefully describe and demonstrate several gestures for him. Most of the information flew right over his head, but in his fuzzy, benumbed state he didn't care about that nearly so much as the gentle cadence of Spock's voice, and the long line of his fingers as they moved in front of him.

Some time later he was watching Spock go through several of his meditative hand positions when the fog over his mind began to clear in earnest, and he became a little bit more aware of his own state. He was lying in a hospital – that much was obvious. It looked like they were in just a side alcove, one among many, although only a few were occupied. He could feel, now, the telltale after-effects of medical treatment, the odd stiffness to some of his limbs, and he recognized the numbness in his mouth, throat, and chest as being induced. Experimentally, he flexed some of the fingers on his right hand, and found that much of his dexterity was coming back too.

Still, he wasn't inclined to interrupt Spock with more coherent questions. He had a surprisingly good, if unorthodox, bedside manner.

The jig was up soon enough anyway.

"Jim?" Spock asked, pausing mid-demonstration to fix him with an observant look. "Have you regained coherency?"

Damn. Oh well, he supposed that he couldn't avoid checking back into reality sooner or later.

"Yup," he confirmed. "I think so."

There was a pause, as Spock seemed to wait and see if anything else would come flying out of his mouth. When nothing did he relaxed in his marginal, very subtle way.

"So what the hell happened to me?" Jim asked, even though he already had his suspicions.

Spock gave him a look. "You ingested an unknown substance, and then attempted to remove the residue with another, incompatible substance, which created an adverse chemical reaction that could have potentially dissolved the majority of your digestive system if left untreated. I procured emergency medical aid in the hopes of preventing this. One of the on-duty nurses then chose to display his lack of competence by administering you a medication which had been previously tagged as unsuitable for you. You nearly went into cardiac arrest," Spock explained, his voice toneless and very to-the-point. He had stiffened back up again, too.

"Huh," Jim replied, running his tongue along the inside of his mouth. Well, it didn't feel like there were any parts missing, so that was a good sign. "How long was I out for?"

"One hour and thirty-eight minutes."

"Hey, that's not bad!" Jim declared cheerfully, grateful that he hadn't missed an entire day or anything. It'd been a while since he'd done that, and it wasn't an experience he relished.

"My assessment of the situation is notably divergent from yours," Spock replied, looking unimpressed and bordering on frustrated.

Seeing a storm in its beginnings, Jim back-pedaled with admirable diplomacy, all things considered. "I just meant that it could have been worse," he rephrased. He wasn't pleased with passing out on the floor and nearly dissolving some of himself – to the point where he'd rather dwell on the fact that that _hadn't_ happened than the idea that it _might_ have.

Spock lowered a hand against the firm material of the pallet he was lying on. "Jim…" he said. But that was all he said, his tone trailing off, unable to take further shape for whatever reason. He told himself that he didn't find the fixed gaze of those cold-coffee eyes as engaging as he did.

But Jim really did like coffee.

Which was, of course, _entirely_ beside the point and not even remotely relevant.

He was almost relieved when the returning physician broke the moment. Jim let himself be thoroughly distracted as he endured the ever-awkward process of being assessed, watching the soft light of her medical tricorder as she did a quick scan, and then compared the results to a few of the tests they'd taken while he was unconscious. It wasn't technically _uncomfortable_ to go through, but he always found it weird to think about being so thoroughly evaluated, since very little could hide from tricorders.

"How does your throat feel?" she asked.

"It doesn't," Jim replied honestly. At her unimpressed look, he amended himself. "It's numb." Then he glanced at Spock. "Why does nobody laugh at my jokes when I'm in some sort of medical facility?"

"I do not laugh at your jokes regardless of our location, Jim," he pointed out reasonably.

"I take my job seriously," the doctor offered in business-like tones.

Jim rolled his eyes. So there was the problem. The audience. Except that Spock _did_ kind of laugh, in his amused-but-trying-not-to-show it way. His eyes laughed. Not that Jim would ever tell him as much – it sounded desperately like a cheesy pick-up line. How many times had he complimented a girl on her eyes in an effort to get lucky? Maybe this was some odd form of divine retribution.

_Spock does not have nice eyes,_ he told himself. _Or nice ears. Or nice hands. Or nice legs. Or nice skin. And I do not like the colour green, and have not had a weakness for green-coloured beings in the past._

Hmm. Lying to himself didn't seem to help very much.

_Spock is my friend._

There. Jim turned to Spock once his scans were done, and gave him a grin. "So that was interesting," he said. "Now we've learned that Andorian hangover remedies and toothpaste are a lethal combination. Good to know."

"Is that what you ingested?" Spock asked, his eyebrows moving slightly upwards as the doctor gave them the all-clear (with advice that Jim drink plenty of water, and report to a medical facility if he felt any more burning in his throat or chest). Jim slid carefully off of the pallet, not wanting to move quickly lest he set his head to spinning. But after only the briefest moments of mild disorientation, he found that he was able to stand and walk without any problems.

"Yup," he confirmed. "The concierge gave it to me. I'm pretty sure she didn't know about the toothpaste thing." She'd seemed to like him, anyway, and she'd gotten them a car, which didn't spell out 'potentially convoluted assassin' in his books.

"Jim. Andorian digestive systems and metabolisms are much different from those of humans," Spock said, looking at him with an expression that had a bit too much 'how did you survive to adulthood?' in it.

He shrugged. "See? And now I've learned something else. It all turned out for the best."

"Your flippancy regarding your personal well-being is inappropriate," Spock insisted – not quite snapping, but looking like he was resisting the urge to do so as they left the hospital. "You are a captain now, and not easily replaced. I have been reminded several times by you of my obligation to my Starfleet duties – I shall now remind you of yours. Your health and safety are of importance. I would ask that you endeavor to employ at least enough common sense to avoid ingesting unknown substances, as I believe _most_ humans have learned is inadvisable by the time they are three years old."

Jim winced.

"But my head really hurt…" he said in a very tiny voice. Spock looked at him. Then he seemed to relent a little, subtly, some of the tension coming off of his frame and away from his eyes.

They walked in silence for a while after that, Jim not wanting to test Spock's current level of control, and Spock looking like he was about a million miles away. It was peaceful. Then he recalled the car again.

"Oh right," he said out loud, snapping his fingers. "There's a datapad I brought up to our place that's got the access codes for a private vehicle. The concierge managed to swing that – I thought it might be better than taking the shuttle."

Spock glanced towards him. "This is the same concierge who fed you poison?" he confirmed.

Jim nodded cheerfully. "Sure. But technically she only gave me _half_ of the poison."

This did not seem to mollify Spock very much, who looked like a man who'd just learned that Santa Clause and Hitler were the same person. As would only be expected in such a situation, the bad was still out-weighing the good by a fair margin.

"That was… accommodating of her," he finally said. "But I believe it would be wiser for us to procure a shuttle. We only have two full days of leave remaining, and the shuttle will be substantially faster."

Jim frowned, a little put-out that Spock was rejecting his brilliant, 'let's-drive-there' plan. "Well what's the hurry?" he asked, wondering in that awful, niggling way if his first officer just didn't want to be stuck alone in a car with him for any substantial length of time.

Spock's typically even stride stuttered momentarily before regaining its normal pace. "It would be prudent to return to Starfleet headquarters as swiftly as we are able to," he said. "I… wished to discuss this matter with you earlier. Before your medical emergency."

Oh.

Shit.

So he _didn't_ want to be stuck in a car with Jim. This was it. This was the big 'discussion', the part where Spock told him that he'd noticed his attraction and most certainly did _not_ reciprocate.

"My stability is far from guaranteed," Spock said – which surprised Jim, because he really hadn't been expecting him to start out on that note. "Until I am able to achieve a reasonable level of control over my emotions, I am a danger. You have made it clear that you intend to remain in my company, regardless of the advisability of such actions – considering these factors, I would request that you arm yourself while in my presence," he explained, as if this was only the most reasonable turn of events.

Jim gaped at him.

"It will be simple to legally procure you a suitable phaser once we are at a Starfleet facility," Spock continued. "Until then, you will have little means to defend yourself should I lose my grasp on my emotions. It is a vulnerable period of time, and it would be logical to shorten it as much as possible."

He was absolutely, one hundred percent serious. Which shouldn't have been surprising. Spock wasn't really a 'gotcha' kind of guy. But Jim was having a lot of difficulty reconciling himself to the words which had just come out of his mouth.

"You want me to arm myself?" he clarified.

Spock gave a slight inclination of his head.

"Against you?"

"It is logical." he repeated.

"I don't want to _shoot_ you, Spock," Jim objected, certain that his multitude of conflicting impulses were at least clear on _that_ particular front. He was fighting back the urge to do a lot of things to Spock, but phasers weren't involved in any of them.

There was something of an awkward silence following that statement, as Jim realized that the emphasis he'd put on 'shoot' was a little much, leaving open the implication that there _was_ something _else_ he would like to do to Spock. He cleared his throat and glanced at his first officer, whose own gaze was fixed on some indistinct point in the distance, and very much not on Jim.

But he didn't actually want to… well, he _did_, but he would get over that, because he could find attractive people to do _that_ with quite easily. Finding another Spock? Much less likely.

"I am aware of your preference for non-violent resolutions," Spock informed him a little stiffly after a minute. "I will also endeavor to avoid putting you in the position of shooting me. This would merely serve as a necessary precaution."

Jim paused, floundering a little. Firstly because all of this _was_ _weird_, but it would kind of make sense to have the ability to stun Spock, in a morbid sort of way. Secondly, because no one had ever called him out on preferring 'non-violent resolutions' before. He didn't think anyone had noticed. Spock's eyes flitted in his direction for an instant.

"It would… help my focus," he added a bit awkwardly.

Jim's gaze snapped over to him. "What?" he asked, not seeing how whether or not he had a phaser would help Spock meditate.

Spock elaborated. "If you are armed, then I will not need to be as concerned that my failures will result in excessively negative consequences – such as the unnecessary strangulation of an assailant. It is important that I attempt to minimize the number of emotions I am susceptible to, until my meditative practices have become more stable."

Jim thought about this.

"So…" he said. "In other words, if I have a phaser, you won't need to _worry_ so much?"

There was another pause.

"Worry is an emotion," Spock then replied, in a tone of 'yes, exactly, so shut up about it now'. Obligingly, Jim dropped that particular line of questioning. There was something of a contemplative, but still distinctly awkward silence between them as they reached the transport station nearest the hospital, and caught a shuttle back to the traveler's facilities. Once they were in a larger group of people Spock tensed visibly, becoming as rigid as Jim had ever seen him. The smallest bead of sweat appeared at his temple. Otherwise, he gave absolutely no outward signs of stress.

"Alright," Jim said at length, after they had disembarked.

Spock looked at him inquiringly.

"I'll start arming myself," he elaborated, not entirely certain of the emotions which passed swiftly behind his first officer's eyes. "_But,_" he added, raising a hand to forestall any idea that such was the end of it. "We'll still take the car, too."

Spock's lips twitched momentarily downwards. "Such a vehicle will take at least a day to reach San Francisco," he pointed out disapprovingly.

Brightening a bit, Jim gave him a wide, charming smile and a wink.

"You only think that because you've never driven with _me_ before."

He then wondered why his first officer's ears turned just a little bit greener than usual.

---

**Author's Note:** Not a ton happens in this chapter, I know – it's kind of an A – B moment. To answer some more questions:

- My sister and I are having a blast. She's here for two more days, then she goes home and I can abandon my duties as human alarm clock. But thanks for everyone wishing us good times! It seems to be working! XD

- Mind-meld stuff is coming, but it's still a ways off, for obvious reasons.

- Alright, alright, I'll cave – on the 'Vulcan kiss' question: Vulcans kiss via very specific hand interactions, so it was not a technical _kiss_. Hand-to-hand contact is still pretty intimate, and finger-to-finger contact especially so (hence Vulcans not shaking hands), and thus it came pretty damn close.

- The issue of Jim still thinking that the universe will implode if both Spocks meet is going to be addressed, yes.

- Just to clear up my somewhat awkward phrasing, when I said the last chapter was the 'lowest low-point' last round, I meant in terms of angst, not writing quality. I have no idea what the lowest chapter is quality-wise; right now I think it's this one, but I always think it's my most recent one.

Thanks again to all you wonderful reviewers! Your insights and support are utterly appreciated. And thanks for everyone being patient with delays.


	12. Chapter 12

Vulcans, Jim was unsurprised to learn, did not break the law. They just didn't. It was so obviously illogical for so many reasons that it never even occurred to them, and besides which, Vulcans very clearly believed in _rules_ and _following them_. So it was a good thing that Jim was behind the wheel, or else they would have been going at the speed limit.

The window was rolled down as far as it could be, and he took the rare moment to enjoy feeling the wind in his hair. His smile was as broad as it had ever been, troubles momentarily forgotten as he lost himself in the purely human joy of going faster than one should. He employed every trick he knew, avoiding the patrolling police units and systems with the ease of teenage years spent in practice, weaving between other vehicles with speed and skill and such smoothness that his passage didn't even have time to insight alarm or even much recognition.

It was glorious. Jim wasn't a pilot, but he was a damn good driver. The car was pretty nice, too, nothing _exciting,_ but fairly new and quick to respond.

Spock had protested their excessive speed, and the first nine traffic laws he'd broken, but after a while he seemed to decide that it was illogical to speak if Jim wasn't going to listen. Instead his first officer took to watching him. It would have made Jim self-conscious, ordinarily, but he found that in this instance he just couldn't be bothered to care – the road was glorious, going fast was fun, and he needed to just let go for a breath of air after everything that had happened. So he didn't care if he looked wild or crazy. Right then, in the moment, it didn't seem important.

He remembered the first time he'd managed to pop a wheelie on his old bike, the wind whipping past his ears and his heart in his throat as the world tilted, like the planet was slowly shrugging beneath him, and he'd just thrown his head back and his arms out. It had been paradise in that one moment, before he'd wiped out spectacularly.

Laughing, he told Spock about it, keeping his eyes on the road as the words slipped past his lips.

Spock didn't reply, except to incline his head. But Jim had his attention. Fixed, almost even rapt, as if in that moment he was the most fascinating thing in all of creation.

He had no idea what he'd done to merit that level of interest, but for just then he let himself bask in it, not bothering to think about good ideas or bad, or the reason why he enjoyed it all so much. He simply did.

They got out of the city pretty quickly with Jim behind the wheel. He probably would have wound up turned around a few times, but Spock made for a precise and efficient navigator, and once he'd adjusted to Jim's 'unique' style of driving, got quite good at anticipating when he was on the verge of screwing up.

"You are talented," Spock informed at one point, and Jim actually swerved a little on the road at the unexpected declaration, and the direct compliment.

"What?" he blurted, glancing briefly over.

Spock elaborated. "I have seen you do this several times now. You are able to produce desirable results from inadvisable actions," he explained, his gaze thoughtful, and distant as though in memory. "At first I dismissed your success in such endeavors as mere statistical anomaly. But there is a point where statistical anomaly ceases to be an applicable concept. It therefore stands to reason that you possess a talent for knowing which inadvisable actions will yield desirable results."

Jim glanced at him, again, confused by that intent stare and what Spock was trying to tell him. "You mean I'm lucky?" he offered.

"No," Spock replied. "As I said, statistical anomaly cannot account for the consistency of your success. I mean that you are adept at choosing which rules to break."

"…Oh." Coming from the source it had, Jim wasn't really sure if that statement actually _did_ qualify as a compliment any more. But Spock looked nothing less than sincere and intrigued. He decided to go out on a limb and assume it was meant well. "Thanks?"

"It was simply an observation," Spock replied. "Although I must inquire – how do you make your determinations?"

Jim glanced at him again, before returning his eyes to the road. Even _he_ knew better than to keep his focus diverted when he was going as fast as he was. "You mean, how do I know what rules to break?" he clarified. Spock made a confirming gesture, and he let out a breath. "Uh… I never really considered it before."

Silence greeted his assertion. Jim was starting to wonder if they were just going to leave it at that, when Spock spoke again. "When you… circumvented the no-win scenario of the _Kobayashi Maru_ test, it must have occurred to you that the Academy would uncover your unorthodox methods, and that these methods could easily be seen as a violation of several mandates regarding student conduct. Yet you must have also possessed some inclination to think these violations would be overlooked. Why?" he asked.

Frowning, Jim ran a hand across the bottom of his jaw, and considered. "Well," he said. "I thought it was a trick."

"A trick?" Spock's eyebrows rose. Jim nodded.

"Yeah. I mean, I took the test twice before that, you know – and after I failed it, I kept running it over in my head. Everybody _said_ the test was unbeatable. But… they were wrong. They just weren't thinking outside the box enough," he reasoned. "The test wasn't unbeatable. All you had to do was treat it like what it really was – a computer simulation. That was the trick. In reality, you don't have to play by any rules except the ones reality forces on you. I didn't think I'd get kicked out, because I figured I'd cracked it – that the only way _to_ beat the test was to hack it. So I did," he explained.

It was funny. He thought that was obvious.

"…Fascinating," Spock declared.

Jim glanced at him. "Yeah?" he asked.

"Yet, from that perspective, any simulation would be pointless in a capacity other than training for computer hacking, given that all proposed scenarios could be circumvented easily through such means," Spock reasoned.

"I didn't hack _every_ test I took," Jim protested. "Just the one I couldn't win any other way."

"I am aware of that," Spock replied. "It is not your integrity I am questioning. It is your logic."

A wry grin twisted his lips. "Well, there's your problem," he said. "I'm just not Vulcan enough for that sort of thing."

Spock's look turned somewhat unreadable. "Logic is not exclusive to Vulcans. Nor does it seem to be a concept which eludes you, as I had once erroneously assessed. You simply appear to have an unorthodox manner of thinking," he said reasonably. "My mother was very logical by human standards. But she had adopted many Surakian teachings – I had believed that the majority of humans would be less competent than she when I first came to Earth."

Jim frowned, trying to remember where he'd heard that word before. Surakian… Surakian… "Oh!" he said, clapping a hand against the steering wheel in realization. "Surakian teachings – I get it, after Surak, right?"

His gaze was fixed on the road, so he didn't have the opportunity to notice the widening of Spock's eyes, or the way his first officer was looking at him as if he'd just starting speaking in an ancient Vulcan dialect. "You are _familiar_ with Surak?" he asked, a note of incredulity slipping into his tones.

Jim's brain stuttered briefly as he realized his slip-up. Oh _shit_. That was something the _other_ Spock had told him about. Surak was the founder of the Vulcan philosophies of logic and emotional suppression – but he'd forgotten which of his two half-Vulcan friends had mentioned that. "Uh…" he hedged brilliantly.

Spock's expression was gradually shifting from incredulity into its more usual mask – but laced with just the faintest glimmer of suspicion.

"Jim," he said. "Where did you learn of Surak?"

He fished desperately in his brain for a response.

"…Cultural studies?"

Spock's eyes narrowed. "You are lying," he said, not accusing so much as observing. Jim's eyes stayed fixed, awkwardly, to the road. He couldn't exactly deny it – not when he'd been so plainly, so bluntly called on it. Any protests he could make would sound incredibly false. And they would be.

It would really suck to be the guy who destroyed space-time because he couldn't keep his Spocks straight. If there was a history to remember him afterwards, it would probably not paint a flattering picture.

"Would you believe I have a Vulcan pen-pal?" he suggested. Which was mostly true, except that he was technically _half_ Vulcan, and Jim had only written to him once.

Skepticism showed on his first officer's face. Then suspicion. Jim glanced at him uncomfortably as the subtle range shifted down the line, moving from suspicion to realization, and finally, resting on annoyance.

"You have been in contact with my alternate self," Spock accused, and now it was Jim's turn to look like someone had just dumped a bucket of ice-water onto his head.

He waited for a minute. The universe didn't collapse.

"You're not supposed to know about him," he blurted out at last in ineloquent confusion. "How do you know about him?" But he was already starting to suspect the answer.

Spock gave him another unreadable look. "Jim," he said. "Did you think I would not deduce what had happened when a ship from the future responded to my voice patterns, and addressed me as 'Ambassador Spock'?" he asked stiffly.

"Well I _hoped_ you wouldn't," Jim replied. "Seeing as how the other you told me that it would _destroy space time_." He was starting to think that might have been bullshit, though.

"…When you spoke to him again, he did not tell you?" Spock asked, his eyes narrowing.

Jim was starting to wonder if he should pull over. In the event that his first officer flipped out, a speeding vehicle was probably not the best place to be for it. "Tell me what?" he asked.

"That I have met him."

Okay. Yeah. Pulling over time, now. Jim directed the car off the road, activated the break, and turned to give Spock his full attention.

"_What?"_ he asked.

Spock met his gaze evenly, although there was a somewhat dark glint in his eye. "I have met him," he reiterated. "We spoke, briefly, when I was considering resigning from Starfleet to participate in the Vulcan colonization effort. He advised me – in essence – to remain on my current path."

Jim's jaw had come unhinged. "Wha… why… but…?" he managed to eek out. Then he caught himself, realized that he probably looked like an idiot, and promptly clicked his jaw back shut as he felt a surge of betrayed anger. "Why didn't you tell me?" he demanded, sharper than he meant to.

His tone, however, didn't seem to provoke any defensiveness from Spock. "I had no reason to broach the subject," he replied simply. "Nor any reason to believe that my alternate self would continue to perpetrate such deceptions on his own part."

_He lied to me,_ Jim thought, feeling betrayed. He'd… damn. He must have looked like such an idiot, he realized. _Again._

"…Jim?"

Clearing his throat, Jim brushed away the uncomfortable thought, and the clenched feeling in his chest. "Yeah. Well, maybe he thought it was funny," he suggested, restarting the engine now that it seemed apparent Spock wasn't going to flip out.

Up went one of his first officer's eyebrows. "That is doubtful," he said.

"I think he's a little more relaxed about his emotions than you are," Jim pointed out, his tone carrying some bitterness.

Spock was fixing him with that intent gaze again. "Perhaps," he conceded. "However, I would not derive enjoyment from deceiving you. Given my alternate self's very high estimation of you, I doubt that he would be so divergent on that point." Pausing, then, he seemed to consider something. "He does appear to be highly manipulative – it is more likely that this quality is motivating him, rather than a malicious sense of humour."

Jim shifted uncomfortably, not caring for the idea of being 'manipulated' any more than being laughed at. "Yeah…" he said. "Well, I guess you should know that the whole 'Earth as a focus' thing came from him. I asked him about Vulcan meditation," he admitted. _When I talk to that old man again, I am going to… to… _Huh. Apparently his brain had a little bit of trouble considering acts of violence against the elderly. _I am going to come across as extremely pissed off. Which I am. And get some answers, dammit!_

Spock inclined his head very slightly. "You contacted my other self to inquire after alternative meditation practices?" he asked.

Jim nodded absently. "Right," he confirmed. "I wouldn't have lied about it, but, you know – I thought it was either that, or rip apart the fabric of the universe."

"Indeed," Spock said. "Given your misinformation, it was a most understandable assessment. In the future, if you are ever again certain that imparting me with specific knowledge could bring an end to existence, I advise that you keep me in ignorance."

Okay. That was kind of funny. Jim snorted, and then shook his head a bit, letting out something of a sigh. "Same here," he replied.

Because that kind of thing happened just about _all_ the time. So it was good to know where everybody stood on the issue.

A less uneasy air settled around the car as they resumed driving. Jim still couldn't help but silently fume over why the elder Spock had deceived him, however. Having him beam aboard the _Enterprise_ from Delta Vega without his presence to verify the wild time-travel stories, divulging all of that information about Vulcan mental practices… why would he lie to avoid making things _simpler?_

"…It is curious," Spock said after a while, breaking through the wall of his betrayed musings. It seemed like just about everyone was taking some kind of dig out of Jim these days – Starfleet. Spock. The other Spock.

Spock some more.

"What's curious?" he asked, not up to feeling antagonistic towards the Spock who at least had a good _excuse_ for occasionally slamming him – metaphorically or otherwise – into walls.

"My alternate self's behavior," Spock elaborated. "I have had cause to puzzle over it since our encounter. He is… convinced of your merit. It would seem logical to assume that in his time, you performed an action of sufficient significance to engender such loyalty."

"He said we were friends," Jim offered, not really thinking that _that_ had been a deception, too. Surprisingly, as ticked off as he was at being tricked, he was still fond of the old guy. "He was a bit messed up from everything that had happened to him, though," he added. "At first I thought I'd just found some crazy weird hermit, until he insisted that he was _you_ – which, come to think of it, didn't actually help the crazy or weird parts any. Then he asked how I'd found him, and nearly jumped me with that brain-talking stuff." Which had been a big boatload of not-fun. However calm the man looked, there was a storm going on underneath all of that, and for a few terrifying moments Jim had been afraid of being swept away by it.

"_What?"_ Spock demanded sharply, the abrupt change in the tone of his voice surprising Jim, who had been almost absent-minded in his recollection.

"Uh… what do you mean, 'what'?" he asked back, going over what he'd said and trying to figure out which part of that had merited the abrupt question.

Spock's gaze had gone very, very hard. "To what do you refer when you say 'brain-talking stuff'?" he clarified.

Jim frowned, a little bit puzzled. "You know, like what you did to that Romulan guy on the _Narada,_" he said. "He put his hand on my face, and showed me some of his memories. Oh, and he said something… I think it was 'my mind to your mind'-"

"-My thoughts to your thoughts," Spock completed. He was wearing an expression like a steel trap. "You said that he nearly 'jumped' you with this – he did not explain what it was? Or request your permission?" he demanded intently.

"Kind of," Jim defended. "At first he started to walk towards me, but when I asked what he was doing, he stopped and said that it would be easier to show me. I think. I don't know, it was intense."

Okay. Spock was angry. Even though he had made no abrupt gestures and was really just sitting very, very still, the emotion had filled up the car almost palpably. Jim thought about pulling over again. But somehow he was nervous to break the steady rhythm of the car's engine, or do anything to shift the mood, worried that it might break the dam which had been very obviously erected.

"He used this method to explain his situation?" Spock asked, after a minute.

Jim answered with a stiff, self-conscious nod. "Yeah. I could kind of see why – I probably would have had trouble believing him otherwise," he reasoned.

For whatever reason, this explanation seemed to mollify Spock a little bit, although it was only a marginal adjustment to what was simmering beneath his pointedly neutralized expression.

"What's wrong?" Jim finally couldn't help but ask.

"…Melding with another individual's mind is not a small matter," Spock answered him after a minute, his throat shifting slightly as he seemed to swallow. "It is an act performed out of necessity, or intimacy. He should not have taken that liberty with you, especially given your unfamiliarity with the process."

At the mention of 'intimacy', Jim couldn't keep his brain from going to all the wrong places. Places which he didn't exactly want to go with a man who was more than a century older than him. "What do you mean, intimate like – what?" he asked, suddenly disconcerted, and now also hyper-aware of Spock's physical presence next to him.

The half-Vulcan exhaled softly.

"He had access to your mind – your thoughts, memories, emotions, perceptions – and you to his. But you were not familiar with such contact, so you would not have been able to manipulate that access. He placed himself in a position of considerable influence over you," Spock explained. Then he added, almost as an afterthought: "and he is manipulative."

It took Jim a moment to process all of the implications of this. He didn't like the idea of being open to that kind of scrutiny. But, at the same time, he didn't think – well, he didn't _feel_ like the other Spock had gone poking around inside his skull very much. He'd been there with Jim, wrapped up in the memories of two planets dying – with the emotional backlash to prove it.

"I don't think he did much," he said reassuringly, wondering if this was one of those cultural things that was a little tricky to understand. There were plenty of telepathic beings in the universe, though – Starfleet's psychological training had necessitated being able to deal with the concept. Some of them were reputedly more liberal with their skills than others.

"You would not know if he had," Spock informed him stubbornly, and then, in a tense gesture, folded his arms across his chest.

For a moment, Jim thought he looked a little less angry, and a little more… put-out.

He fought back the impulse to reach over and lay a hand on Spock's shoulder. _If I'm not freaked out, why is he?_ he wondered, although he supposed that it should bother him more than it did. The other Spock had already proved he was capable of deceiving him, and, as Spock had said, if the guy had messed around with his head, how would he know?

But his instincts just weren't going along with that idea. Some of his _insecurities_ were chasing it around, although surprisingly, not many. He was still more bothered about being lied to.

Spock didn't look like he was paying him that much attention, however. He'd slid his eyes closed, and was muttering a string of incomprehensible – and some unpronounceable – words under his breath. Now that he'd learned a little more about it, Jim guessed that they were chants to help him focus.

Wisely, he left Spock to it, and instead returned his attention to the fine art of committing multiple, unrepentant traffic violations.

But no matter how far past recommended speed limit he pushed the car, it was still a lot of ground to cover, and soon enough certain biological imperatives began to make themselves known. Besides which, the numbness had worn off in his throat, and it was starting to feel like someone had rubbed sandpaper along it. A break was looking like a better and better idea.

Spock didn't even seem to be aware of the fact that Jim had pulled into a restaurant parking lot until the engine stopped. Then he opened his eyes, and fixed him with a questioning glance.

Jim grinned, glad to see that a lot of the edge had been taken out of that stare. Not that the edge didn't have its own strange appeal, though, all hot and sharp and honed by – you know what? He was going to stop there. Yeah.

"Hungry?" he asked, and then resisted the urge to bang his head against the steering wheel as his brain automatically connected the question to innuendo. Just one word! Goddammit, he was _cursed_.

Spock tipped his head slightly in a half-nod, and they exited the car. Jim took a minute to stretch out his arms and legs. Then, together, they walked over to the pretty standard looking establishment. It was sitting quietly beneath an over-sized billboard, shaded somewhat by its own advertisement. "Why don't you get us a seat? I'm gonna take a leak," he said, clapping Spock briefly on the shoulder (_damn_, forgot again) and then hastily making his way towards the place's obviously marked restrooms.

When he was through he managed to locate Spock with almost gravitational ease, finding him at a small table which was well removed from the general hustle and bustle of the establishment. The décor was plain and pale, contrasting the dark colours of his first officer's hair and clothing. The window beside him was tinted a very fitting bright green, casting him in light which made his ordinarily subtle alien complexion more pronounced. 'Exotic' didn't even begin to cover it, but Jim pushed that idea aside, and sat down.

"I took the liberty of procuring you a glass of water," Spock said by way of greeting, and Jim gave him a nod of thanks before he lifted the cool drink and soothed his throat with it. The ice clinked and glinted reflected shards of green at him.

"You holding up alright?" he asked, once he'd drained a healthy third of the glass.

Spock made an affirmative gesture, tipping his head slightly and, just briefly, closing his eyes. "I have my composure, for the time being," he confirmed. "After you… departed last night, I amended several of my meditation practices."

"And it helped?" Jim asked, honestly curious.

If Spock had been human, he may well have made the so-so hand gesture. As it stood, he somehow managed to convey the same sentiment with just the slightest movement of his mouth. "It was… disconcerting. But also more promising than my former attempts," he replied.

A server came, then, and they ran up against a stumbling block when they realized that the menu had limited vegetarian options. Jim wound up picking through the menu along with Spock, hunting down a suitable item which didn't contain a single animal product. Nearly all of them had at least shrimp, bacon, or chicken in them somewhere. The server proved to be of little help, simply standing there in the jaded indifference of a person who wasn't exactly _fond_ of their job.

Leaning across the table, Jim watched Spock's fingers as they traced the lines of the menu's text – a gesture unnecessary for a being with so precise a brain. It seemed very absent-minded, however, and so he guessed that it was his human side showing through a little bit.

"Look," Jim finally said, turning to the server in exasperation. "You feed people who are allergic to some foods, right?" he asked.

The server gave him a weird look, but nodded.

"Right," Jim continued, and then he jabbed a thumb in Spock's direction. "_He_ is allergic to anything which has come from an animal. Or a fish," he added, not quite trusting the guy's intelligence that far. "So whatever he orders, make sure it doesn't come in contact with anything that used to be alive and moving around." '_Or I will punch you in the face'_ was left unsaid, but heavily implied.

That, at least, seemed to jar the young man out of his apathetic trance for a moment. "Uh, sure," he agreed, looking uncomfortably between Jim's semi-glare and Spock's careful neutrality. "I can do that."

"Good," Jim replied happily, before inclining his head towards Spock and indicating the menu in a playful gesture of invitation. "There. Pick what you like."

The corners of Spock's mouth twitched up ever-so-slightly, but he obliged. The server took their orders down hastily and then left, returning them to the quiet semi-privacy of their table.

"Damn," Jim said. "This is a weird place. No vegetarian option?" he mused, feeling a little self conscious, as if he should have been able to guess from the exterior. But it wasn't as if there'd been any indication of that on the sign.

"There were the bread sticks," Spock pointed out diplomatically. "Although they could also be covered in cheese and bacon, according to their descriptive text."

Jim shook his head, ducking it down a bit, and laughed. But afterwards their conversation drifted off for a time, in that awkward fashion which can occur when the next topic seems elusive. Spock cast his gaze out the window, watching through the green filter of glass as a light breeze kicked across the parking lot. He laced his fingers together, leaning his arms against the table, looking for a moment very serene and alien and stark, and yet also very familiar and appropriate.

The awkwardness died, relaxing into comfortable quiet instead. An acceptance of the lull in conversation. Jim absent-mindedly ran his thumb against the cool, perspiring surface of his water glass. He thought about what they'd do once they got to San Francisco. There were some Starfleet administrative personnel who were about to be on the receiving end of his temper. He then thought about the strange idea of having to arm himself against his own first officer. But Spock, he considered, would get the hang of his new situation; he'd have to, or else Jim would need to find himself a different first officer. He knew that. Starfleet might not require the same rigorous emotional control as Vulcan traditions did, but there were still standards.

Not that he was going to rat Spock out to the psych department any time soon. But he still had to think like a captain now, even when it was a pain in the ass.

"Jim," Spock said, as Jim was beginning to wonder where their meal was. He looked over, and found that he was unexpectedly locked in an intent gaze. "What is your estimation of my other self?"

Surprised by the question, Jim frowned, his thumb squeaking to a halt in its distracted passage over his glass. "What do you mean by 'estimation'?" he decided to clarify.

"I refer to your opinions your perceptions," Spock explained. "Anything that you have found to be noteworthy about him. What you have observed of his character. You have interacted with him more extensively than I have."

Thinking about it, Jim supposed he was right, although it seemed a bit strange to know more about someone than they knew about themselves. In a sense. It seemed even stranger to try and put his sentiments about one Spock into words for another. "I don't know," he replied, shrugging. "I can't figure out why he lied about needing to avoid _you_. But otherwise, he's alright."

Spock regarded him carefully for a moment. Then he raised an eyebrow at him, when it seemed apparent that he wasn't going to say anything more. "Is that the extent of your insight? That he is 'alright'?"

Jim pulled back defensively. "Come on, Spock," he said. "I've only talked to the guy twice. What are you looking for here?"

But he knew he wouldn't get an answer right away. He could already hear their server returning with their meals.

Both Jim and Spock were silent as the food was laid out before them, and it was only once the distant footfalls of the unenthusiastic young man had faded that Jim looked from his plate and back to his first officer. Spock was scrutinizing his food, but seemed to find it acceptable. He didn't voice any protests, at least, and after a moment, set about his neat and methodical task of eating.

Loading up his own fork, Jim shoved it into his mouth without much care. Just on principal. The universe needed balance, after all.

"I do not think like him," Spock confessed after a moment, pausing in his meal and finally looking up to meet Jim's gaze, which had remained, for the most part, fixed upon him. The revelation was unexpected.

Jim gave it a minute, but that seemed to be all that Spock was offering up.

"Hey," he said at length. "If it helps, look at it like this: _eventually_ you will. You know. When you've got a couple centuries under your belt."

His attempt at humour just earned him a very dry look.

"He is unlikely to be that old," Spock corrected him. Jim's response was to shrug. "It is also possible that I will never be as he is. My existence is already irreversibly altered from his."

"Yeah, I know," Jim said, waving his fork through the air to emphasize his dismissal. "You're different people – I get that. I just meant that it's probably a 'wisdom of the years' type of thing. Or senility. Take your pick."

"You suspect him of mental deterioration?" Spock asked, plainly serious.

Jim gave him a weird look. "That was a joke," he corrected. To his surprise, Spock actually seemed to deflate a little. "Okay, you know what?" he said at last, not angry, but a little annoyed. "I don't speak _circle_, so whatever it is that's eating you, just spit it out."

He could tell that his first officer hadn't been expecting that, as his shoulders tensed just a bit, betraying his surprise.

"I am not being consumed," Spock protested in false naivety.

It got him a fork pointed in his direction.

"Don't play dumb," Jim said, not in the least bit fooled. "You suck at it."

The combined insult and compliment in that observation seemed to give Spock pause for a moment. "I suppose you would be the authority on such a skill," he conceded in response. For a minute, Jim also found himself puzzling over whether he'd just been complimented or insulted.

He decided it probably evened itself out. But he'd go with the 'complimented' perspective anyway.

"Damn straight. Now what's wrong?"

Spock hesitated. He looked at Jim as if he were evaluating something, although exactly what wasn't apparent. "My alternate self has gone to great lengths to ensure that we will interact," he said, after a moment. "It is illogical behavior. Our timeline was altered decades before his arrival in it. To assume that anything will remain consistent is unwise, and yet, he is convinced that we should be well acquainted." Spock's expression shifted into one of his not-frowns. "You in particular were largely affected by the changes caused by Nero. It is logical to assume that you would be different from the James T. Kirk which my other self recalls."

Jim listened, not at all surprised or bothered by what he was hearing. He knew that the other Spock seemed to think that he and his first officer should be holding hands and skipping under rainbows, and he himself had considered several times that he was probably very different from the other… er, himself. It was just a matter of seeing where his friend was trying to get with this.

Inhaling, Spock seemed to tense a little, as if he were bracing himself for something unpleasant. "Adept telepaths are able to filter, shift, re-direct, and even suppress the thoughts or memories of others. It is possible that during his distress, my other self used the mind-meld as an opportunity to... alter you. To make you more like the James T. Kirk he was familiar with."

Jim was quiet. Spock continued. "He may have sought more in you than he gained."

Wow. He decided to ignore the potentially huge and obviously unintended insult in _that_ assertion.

"…Spock," Jim said at length. "I really don't think anything like that happened."

He'd meant his words to be reassuring, but for some reason, they didn't work. Spock's hand tightened around his utensil, causing the fork to bend unnaturally in his grasp. "Your conviction only further supports my suspicions," he replied. "Have you not considered the unusual willingness you display to excuse my transgressions? Your stubborn insistence on rendering me aid?"

Jim was looking at Spock as if he'd grown another head. "Wait," he said. "You think I do that stuff because I'm _brainwashed?_" he asked.

_It would explain a lot,_ a dark little voice chimed in from the back of his mind. It would explain why he enjoyed Spock's company so much. It would explain why Spock's insults or attacks hurt him more than they should. It would even explain his unexpected attraction towards him. But it wouldn't explain everything, and he could see holes in the argument – like _why_ the elder Spock would change his brain to make him attracted to his younger self.

"But if he was going to do that," Jim insisted. "Then why would he leave? If he went to all of the trouble to brainwash me, why would he do that and then just wave goodbye?"

A mixed jumble of thoughts and doubts swirled through his mind. He honestly didn't think Spock – either Spock – would do something that distasteful or immoral to him. But did that impulsive faith in his character come from the fact that he _had?_ Then again, he remembered the meld with Spock. Vividly. The old man had been right there with him, going through his memories, so close that if it had been a physical interaction then they could have held hands. His voice had explained in words, his mind had shown in memories, and his emotions had conveyed in feeling what had transpired, and the connection broke as soon as that was done. He'd never considered that anything else had gone on. It just didn't seem like there was time or opportunity.

But it was his _mind_ telling him this, and if that was what had been messed with… he couldn't trust it.

He looked across the table at Spock, who was watching him with just the faintest traces of apprehension – maybe even fear?

Could Spock do something like that to him? Could he even trust his own ability to judge such a thing? But… at the very least, he could trust _this_ Spock to not approve of such a thing. Or else he wouldn't have brought it up.

A thought occurred to Jim.

"Would you be able to tell?" he asked.

Spock's expression shifted slightly from tension to confusion. Jim elaborated, raising a hand to tap one of his own temples. "If you took a look around in here – would you be able to tell whether or not he'd changed anything?"

_He didn't,_ the majority of Jim's instincts insisted. Wouldn't someone have noticed if he had a completely different personality? Wouldn't Bones, or his mother? Then again, he _had_ changed. But he'd thought that had more to do with all of the life-altering decisions that he'd made in the past few years.

After a pause which was almost tangible, Spock answered him. "I would," he confirmed, moving his hands off of the table, so that they rested further away from Jim and safely at his sides. "However, it is inadvisable for me to attempt such an evaluation until I have regained better self control."

"…Well," Jim concluded at length. "I guess we'll just have to wait until you're up to it, in that case, since I don't have any other telepathic friends."

He should have been anxious over this situation. He should feel worried, and violated, and angry – but he was still too sure, in the grand scheme of things, that it hadn't happened.

"You are being very calm about this," Spock noted. "It is increasing my suspicions."

Jim shrugged. "I just think you're wrong," he answered bluntly. And he did. Even if he was simultaneously terrified that Spock was right.

---

**Author's Note:** Dun dun DUN! Of course, Spock Prime is about as evil as mittens, which his younger self seems not to have picked up on. More question-answering: I don't have Live Journal, but I'm pretty much only writing _this_ at the moment anyway, so it wouldn't make much difference if I did. Some people have been wondering if this story will end right when the vacation does - to which the answer is 'nope'. I hope to get back to daily updates soon, and my stupid brain keeps planning a sequal to this, no matter how many times I tell it to pipe down and shut up. But I'm keeping a lid on that stuff until this is finished, at least. ^_~


	13. Chapter 13

They left the restaurant in near-silence after that. Spock was still tense. Jim, on the other hand, found himself in the grips of a rare existential moment, wondering how many of his perceptions were real and how mutable the nature of a man's being could be. They were not thoughts which suited him. It was reminiscent of a time when he'd been nine years old, following his mother on her errands. He'd suddenly been struck by a revelation of his own mortality when he watched a bug slam into the windshield of a nearby car.

_I am that bug, and I can be squished,_ he had thought with rare insight, momentarily aware in the most excruciating sense that he was flesh and blood, bone and brain, and so many breakable things.

Of course, he'd gotten over that moment not two minutes later, and was never really prone to having those sorts of thoughts afterwards. But now he couldn't help but wonder how much of him would be easy for a telepathic being to change. Spock seemed to think it was possible for someone to rummage around in his head and make a real mess of things. Jim didn't doubt that it could happen, but to have his personality changed so subtly that he didn't even notice it – there was a freaky idea. Maybe that was why he remained so adamantly unconvinced about the whole thing.

"Jim," Spock said, a flash of uncertainty in his eyes as they got back into the car. Then, very briefly, one long and pale hand came to rest against his forearm. The quickest of reassuring pressures was granted by those tightening fingers, before Spock swiftly retreated again. "If there is something wrong, then I will repair it," he promised.

Jim wondered how you could repair something when it didn't feel broken. But he couldn't focus much on the thought, as a lot of his attention was occupied with the ghost sensation of Spock's hand against his arm, and the echo of his fingers. He suppressed a shiver as he started the car, flesh tingling in a way that one simple touch should not have ignited. It took him several long minutes before he could look over to Spock again.

When he did, he was more than a little surprised. As they rejoined the flow of traffic, Spock had folded his arms again, and tipped his head so that it rested against the raised glass of his window. His brows were drawn together, producing a line between them, and his mouth was tight and unhappy. By human standards he might have come across as bored and displeased. By his own, he was almost a picture of misery. Jim was immediately concerned.

"Spock?" he asked, and then actually slowed down a little when he received no response. Uncertainly, he moved one hand from the steering wheel and wavered between the thought of extending it or keeping it to himself. The former won out, and he brought it to rest against Spock's warm, somewhat narrow shoulder.

What the heck had happened? Was it something he ate? Could he get sick that fast? "Spock? What's wrong?" he insisted.

Spock moved one of his arms and, reaching over, clasped Jim's wrist. "Do not…" he said, before closing up. He kept his eyes tightly shut, but he gave a gentle push with his hand. Obligingly, Jim let go. He felt his breath catch when Spock's thumb moved across the bare skin just below his palm, a soft brush before they separated, warm and gentle and sending imagined shockwaves up his arm. He was certain it had been unintended.

"I will regain myself," his first officer said very softly, his free hand clenching before he tucked it against his body once more.

Jim's eyes widened as he realized that Spock was struggling against some kind of emotional compulsion. He was surprised because he'd never seen him look like that while he was doing so before. Normally he was all tension and reserve, tightened up and shut down, as if he were trying to keep from lashing out at the world. But now it was more like he was trying to keep himself from sinking into something.

Miserable looking… he was _sad_.

What the hell could have made him so sad so suddenly?

_Alright, think,_ he told himself, going over what they'd talked about, and what he'd learned from the older Spock. His best guess was that Spock was… _upset_, because he apparently suspected his other self of doing something which he found morally repugnant. Jim supposed a guy could get despondent about that, although he was a little surprised at its sudden onset, and the shape it had taken.

"Hey, Spock, listen," he said, keeping a good distance, but repeatedly darting worried glances at his first officer. "If he's done anything – that's, you know, not _your_ fault. But I don't think he did anything."

His words seemed to have the opposite effect of their intent. Spock's jaw clenched, and his eyes tightened shut even more. Thinking fast, Jim carried on.

"You wanted to know what I thought of him earlier, right? I mean, I guess if I'm - uh, compromised - it's not going to be useful, but he _is_ different from you. He's – I don't know, nice. Comfortable. Not that you _aren't_," he quickly added. "Er, although, I don't think you're comfortable. Especially not right now. But, I do like him. He seems to like me. He's not… not _demanding_, or anything. I think he's just had more time to get old and stop caring about what other people think," he concluded, darting another glance at Spock.

With a nervous lick of his lips, he admitted: "I'd like him no matter what, Spock. I'm a sucker for people who think I'm the shit." Then, impulsively, he decided to throw in a last thought. "Which, when you think about it, doesn't explain why I like you so much, since you're so different. " Not _too_ different, though – but he wasn't going to say that out loud. "If he changed my brain to make me more, you know, like this other Jim who got along with him, and you can't even understand the guy, then why do I like _both_ of you?"

Spock shifted, slightly, and it occurred to Jim that he might not even have been listening. But then he let out a long, low breath. "I do not know," he admitted, and his voice was a little steadier than it had been before. "But if you have been altered in some way, it is probable that removing those alterations will also remove any… fondness you harbor towards either of us. I doubt that you will 'like' me afterwards."

Jim looked at the road. Then he looked back at Spock. Then he looked at the road again.

No. No way.

It couldn't be that simple, could it? But… _he_ didn't have that level of influence over Spock. Not so much that the idea of Jim _disliking_ him could make him so sad.

Then again, he knew that Spock didn't have much to go by in the way of friends. Maybe it was a combination of things? Because if it was just the idea of _him_ that was making Spock so miserable, then he didn't know quite what to do with that, or the way his heart felt like it was going to hammer straight through his chest and land on the dashboard.

"Hey," he said. "I didn't like you before."

…So maybe that hadn't been the best way to start out. Spock had cracked an eye open to look at him, at least, and Jim hastily decided to explain himself a little better. "I mean, if I was going to like you automatically because the other you made me more – I dunno – different and friendly to you and stuff, then wouldn't it have started right _after_ I left Delta Vega?" he reasoned, forcing his attention momentarily back to his driving in order to keep from plowing into another car. "I don't know if you remember, Spock, but I didn't exactly run up and hug you."

A kind of tense stillness settled over the car. Jim shifted uncomfortably, suddenly bombarded with the mental image of himself wrapping his arms around Spock.

"_Anyway,_" he continued, forcing the tiger of his unwelcome attraction back into its cage. "I don't think I'll suddenly stop liking you over it… buddy." The last word was tacked on awkwardly, a forceful attempt at creating some sort of barrier between himself and the undeniable sentiment of his words.

He winced. Damn. All this talk of 'liking' people made him feel as if he were in the third grade again, with Judith Anne asking him if he '_like_-liked' her.

At least back then the answer had been an emphatic 'no'.

Spock's hands clenched and unclenched briefly. But that was the only response he gave for a while. Stumped, and figuring that it would probably just be best to leave him to it at this point – and hopefully avoid making an ass of himself in the process – Jim turned on the radio.

He'd never been a very musical person. But Spock was. So he found a station that was playing those long, boring, instrumental songs which geniuses supposedly favoured, and focused on his driving. Unfortunately his navigator had been taken out of commission, so he was getting himself turned around more than he had before. An internal litany against his lousy sense of direction began. You didn't need one of those in space – it was kind of a moot point out there. But in the complex lanes of traffic and transit which ran through a busy planet like Earth? That was another story.

"Do not turn left," Spock said suddenly, and Jim nearly jumped out of his skin, before moving to comply with the softly-delivered suggestion.

He glanced over at his first officer. Spock was sitting upright again, and looking more composed, although he still seemed largely despondent on the whole. "We will be required to circle around once more if you do. Remain on this road."

Well. He'd read the map, and he had the perfect memory. Jim shrugged and went with it.

"How're you fee-uh, not feeling?" he asked, catching himself. He thought he saw just the faintest twitches at the corner of Spock's mouth.

"I am greatly inconvenienced by the presence of my emotions," he admitted. "It is… unpleasant. I find it imperative that I re-master my self control as swiftly as possible."

Jim resisted the urge to snort. "Yeah, yeah, I know all that," he said. "I meant _right now_. Are you," he paused momentarily to make a vague hand gesture, "okay?"

There was a very pregnant silence for a time.

"…No." Spock's voice was so low, almost ashamed, and tired-sounding.

It felt like somebody had punched Jim in the gut.

He couldn't think of much anything to say to that. Spock wasn't alright, they both knew it. But the half-Vulcan steadily regained more of his usual composure, and Jim drove on, warring within himself between giving him the space he needed, and the reassurances which hadn't seemed to work so far.

"I will be well," Spock insisted at length, as if he could sense Jim's thoughts. Or maybe he'd just noticed the repeated, worried glances he was getting. "You should focus your attention elsewhere."

It occurred to Jim that his frequent checking on him might be making his friend uncomfortable. He forced himself to stop. For most of the drive they didn't talk at all after that, unless it was for Spock to give him directions, or keep him from making a mistake.

They made good time, as Jim had promised, even if it was still a much longer trip without a shuttle. The light was only just beginning to fade when the territory turned familiar, as they drew nearer to the bustling hub of San Francisco. Something in Spock seemed to uncoil a little when they came within range of recognizable landmarks, an ease born from the comfort of being someplace you _know_. Jim was relieved. He supposed there weren't many familiar places which Spock could go back to anymore.

"Hey, you want to tear it up with me?" he offered, thinking it might be a good way to cheer his first officer up. "I know plenty of good places…" he trailed off, realizing that most of the 'places' he knew probably wouldn't suit a Vulcan with emotional issues.

Spock gave him a patient look. "I believe it would be more prudent for me to spend my time in rest and meditation," he reasoned.

"Right," Jim agreed with an awkward nod. Then he cleared his throat. "So, uh – do you want any company? For meditating?" He winced. Great – not only was that a stupid question, and one which could _easily_ be read as a come-on, but he hadn't even meant to say it. It had just sort of popped out.

"That would be inadvisable," Spock replied, his expression turning solemn. "Jim, surely you realize that until we have verified your mental state, it would be better to avoid interacting? Logically, if my other self has meddled with you, my presence in your company would likely only exacerbate such changes."

There was a pause, as his words sank into the space between them.

Jim glared at him.

"Are you trying to ditch me?" he asked. Spock's eyes widened a little. "Because you keep finding these convenient excuses to tell me I should piss off, so if you don't like my company, just say so." His fingers tightened around the steering wheel, conveying anger, but really he was more annoyed than anything else.

"That is not the issue," Spock insisted. "I am only trying to ensure that you are not harmed."

He bristled a little at that. He couldn't help it – it was insulting that Spock seemed to think he could smash him into little pieces without any problem. Whether or not it was true. "Oh, I get it," he said, fighting to keep his annoyance from turning into real anger. But he couldn't keep the bite out of his voice. "You think I can't take of myself. Or maybe that I can't think for myself. I guess it makes sense – I'm only human, after all. No keen Vulcan intellect, or steely Vulcan grip to help me out of trouble if something happens, right? Nooo, I need to arm myself, and stay away, and get my mind all screwed up by an old man in a cave."

"Jim-"

"No, I've had enough of that shit," he insisted, cutting Spock off immediately. "If you don't _want_ to have me around, fine. Say it, and I'll back off. But until it's proven otherwise, can we at _least_ give me enough _fucking credit_ to assume that I know my own mind, and that I can make my own choices, and if I like spending time with you, dammit, it's because I _like spending time with you?_ "

That was probably more shouting than he should have done at Spock. Especially considering all of the factors, and the whole 'let's not make him angry' resolution he'd made a while ago. But damn, it felt good to get that off of his chest. The reality of it was that Jim just didn't have the self-esteem required to play that kind of emotional ping-pong – not where it counted.

"There is no logical reason for you to enjoy my company," Spock replied, quiet and tired rather than angry. "But there are many logical reasons for you to avoid it."

Jim gave him a long look.

"Do you realize," he asked after a minute, "how _insane_ that sounds?"

Spock blinked. Jim elaborated.

"You're trying apply Vulcan logic to a human emotional response. It won't work. Vulcan logic operates on the assumption that emotions aren't a contributing factor. But I don't suppress my feelings," well, not most of them, "so it would be stupid for me to think like that." Then, for good measure, he added: "You're a scientist. You know that if you omit relevant factors from an equation, the results will be inaccurate."

Contemplative silence descended.

Now that he'd vented, Jim felt a little lighter, although he was worried that he'd just screwed up magnificently. Spock was quiet. He didn't so much as looked out of the windows when Jim brought them closer to the hub of commerce, housing, and activity which surrounded Starfleet headquarters. His gaze remained fixed thoughtfully on his own hands, even when they were cruising down oh-so familiar streets.

It was only once they starting the unpleasant process of trying to find a suitable parking space near the Academy buildings that Spock seemed to come back to reality, and then it was just to use his keen observational skills to help them park. Jim tried not to feel too nervous about the whole thing. He wasn't having much success.

When they finally found a suitable place, and he'd stopped the engine, Jim leaned back into his seat and just stayed put for a while. His throat was dry and unpleasant-feeling again, even though they'd stopped a few times along the way to rehydrate him. It was probably all the talking he'd done.

He almost jumped when Spock's hand came to rest against his arm. "I do not object to your company," he said simply, removing the touch as swiftly as he'd granted it. Jim swallowed, hard, and opened his mouth to reply, but Spock was already getting out of the car. Quickly, he exited as well. His first officer's dark eyes glanced swiftly in his direction before he moved towards the main building, which was still swelling with the activities of resident students and Starfleet personnel. Jim caught up to him, matching his pace as they drew even.

"So, that's it?" he asked. "Just – no objections?"

Spock glanced at him, and Jim made an attempt to lighten the mood. "'Cause, I mean, people have been known to _fight_ over my company," he elaborated, putting a bit of a swagger in his step, and an arrogant grin on his face. "Mostly ladies, and mostly in mud pits, but there have been a few exceptions."

Up went the eyebrow.

_Ha! Victory!_ Jim thought, as he finally got himself an expression that wasn't abject misery, or forced neutrality. His grin widened.

"I mean, just so you know, you're probably going to have to duke it out with Bones at some point. He's had a monopoly on that whole 'best friend' front for a long time now. I don't think he's gonna want to share – it's a good position."

_There are better 'positions', though,_ his libido supplied unhelpfully. He almost tripped.

"I have no intention in fighting Dr. McCoy," Spock replied, although he did look more cheerful than he had for a while. "He is an intelligent man with regards to physical well-being. I trust he will forfeit long before it comes to that."

Jim really did trip that time.

Fortunately, however, a hand closed around his arm and caught him before he hit the ground, yanking him neatly back onto his feet. The only real consequence was to have some of the breath jolted out of his lungs. When he looked up it was to find Spock standing quite close, his gaze intent as he looked him over.

"Clumsiness is atypical of you," Spock noted seriously. "You are still unwell."

"I'm fine," Jim insisted.

"You are not," his first officer replied, just as stubbornly.

"I tripped! It happens!"

"I have observed your movements before. You are well coordinated," Spock said, unwilling to relent, although he did let go of Jim's arm. "We will procure lodgings. I recommend you rest."

Grumbling a little Jim followed him as he started walking again, ignoring the few curious glances and occasional whispers they earned from passersby. At least here at the academy and headquarters people seemed to recognize Spock just as much as they did himself. And they knew better than to approach them.

Once they were inside, Spock directed Jim to sit while he dealt with the necessary processes. Starfleet offered housing at its facilities for all Earthbound officers, but things could get crowded, especially when a big ship like the _Enterprise_ was grounded. Sometimes it took a while to sort everything out. Although he wouldn't admit it, Jim was kind of grateful to avoid the tedium of such things, even if sitting around wasn't much better. He hadn't thought he was tired, but once he was relaxed, quiet, with nothing immediate to occupy his attention, he began to feel heavy and worn down. Had it really only been that morning that he'd been poisoned a couple of times? It felt like a century ago.

He leaned back against the soft fabric of his seat, and let his eyes slide shut with a long exhalation of breath. Tomorrow morning he'd have to check on the ship's progress again. Maybe he'd skip using the regular Starfleet channels and just give Scotty a call – he knew the young engineer would be monitoring progress more closely than anyone else. For some reason he'd developed a highly proprietary interest in the _Enterprise_. Not that Jim was complaining, the guy was a genius, and a funny drunk, too.

His thoughts drifted for a while, and he hovered on the precipice of consciousness – not quite willing to just let himself fall asleep where he was, but coming close enough. It wasn't terribly pleasant. His mind became disjointed with fatigue, but he was too uncomfortable, too exposed to just give in to it.

"Jim," he heard eventually, and stirred out of his rest to find Spock looking down at him, brows drawn together. "I have procured our quarters. We were requested to share – I apologize."

Jim waved him off, rising from the chair and running a bleary hand across his face. "I don't mind," he assured him.

Now that he'd let himself relax, however, he couldn't quite seem to regain his former levels of alertness. So he simply followed Spock, who was taking his own turn at shooting concerned glances in his direction.

"You are certain that you are well? You do not require medical attention?" Spock asked at length, standing a little closer than he was generally prone to. Jim waved him off.

"'M fine," he assured. "Just beat."

Fortunately, his first officer seemed to accept that assessment, since Jim didn't want to even imagine what it would be like to put up with more doctors just then. Once they arrived at their quarters he was quite relieved, although he took the time to fetch himself a glass of water before he did anything else.

The rooms were standard, not altogether different from what you'd find on a Starfleet vessel. There was a partition separating two narrow beds, a tiny bathroom, and a main room with a desk and couple of chairs. One long, oval window stretched across a far wall, and there were a few leafy plants, but otherwise the place was utterly devoid of any character. Typical regulation stuff, but familiar to the point where he missed his cabin on the _Enterprise_. It would be good to get back to it.

He drained his glass, and watched out of the corner of his eye as Spock set his bag on the desk and began to go through it. "I will meditate as you rest. Please inform me if I disturb you," he said.

"Back at you," Jim replied, knowing from the elder Spock that even the sounds of his breathing could be distracting, under the right circumstances. He changed quickly into a pair of sleep pants, incredibly self-conscious of undressing in the same room as his first officer – even though Spock was conveniently facing the other direction – and then all but fell onto one of the narrow, firm little regulation beds. He closed his eyes and took a deep breath, fully expecting to drift off straight away.

But he didn't. Not quite. Instead he cracked one eye open, watching Spock as he lit his candles and set them about the quarters, dimming the lights and filling everything with the soft glow of fire. Then he moved to the far side of the room and sat, folding his legs and entwining his hands so that his index fingers and thumbs were touching, extended, while the rest remained clasped together. Jim recognized the formation, although he couldn't remember what it was supposed to symbolize, or think of why Spock would choose it over any other.

The gentle, smoky scent of the candles filled his nose, and it was oddly soothing. He supposed that he could see why they would be useful. The other Spock had mentioned a fondness for having a fountain around while he meditated, too.

Thinking of the other Spock made him frown, briefly. He would have to send him another message. While he wasn't quite as willing as the younger Spock to just assume that the old man was spitting lies at them like bees, he _did_ want to know why he'd been deceived.

He didn't know if he could bring up the question of 'hey, you wouldn't have happened to have given me a new personality, by any chance?' though. Maybe he'd let Spock the younger field that one, since it was _his_ crazy theory in the first place. In fact, now that he considered it, letting the two of them talk to each other was looking like a better and better opportunity. Provided that his Spock would be willing to take the older's ones words at face value.

_Heh, my Spock,_ he thought sleepily, amused by his own use of the possessive. Then he gave himself a mental bitchslap. He really needed to stop doing that. Maybe he just had to sleep with someone else again? He'd tried to get it out of his system already, but, he could admit, that hadn't exactly been the best sex of his life. Not that he felt particularly inclined to do anything about it just then. _It'll wear off,_ he assured himself. Certainly there would come a point where he was just so used to seeing Spock that he didn't even think about his physical nature anymore.

After all, they'd been working together for months, and they'd spent much more time in one another's company lately…

He paused, shifting slightly against his blankets as he thought about that. Weird. By that reasoning, he should _already_ be used to Spock. Except that he'd only just recently become _aware_ of Spock – which was very odd, he decided, since ordinarily he noticed a person's attractiveness first, and everything else later on. Like with Uhura – at one point, she'd been a pretty girl at a bar. But now she was Uhura, and thus, even though nothing about her looks had changed, she was no longer first and foremost a pretty girl. Jim knew her better, so his attraction had packed its bags and hit the road.

But with Spock, _first_ he'd started getting to know him, and _then_ he'd started to find him attractive.

So what the hell did that mean?

…No, seriously, what the hell? This was like backwards-land madness.

Now that he was plagued by several questions that wouldn't quite leave him alone, Jim found his mind unable to shut down enough to just let him sleep. So he tiredly sprawled at an odd but comfortable angle, and contented himself with watching Spock meditate. Which was essentially just watching Spock sit quietly. There was something pleasant about it, though – relaxing to be in the same room, just quiet and peaceful. His breathing evened out, and he considered what was going on in his first officer's mind.

Cataloguing thoughts and feelings from the day was usually the first step. Assessing what had broken through his shields, its origins, and then quietly tucking it away into a far corner of his mind. He would focus on something – once Vulcan, now probably Earth – a stable form, an anchor for his consciousness. Then he'd go through his physical assessment, testing the state of his body, his muscles and organs and the myriad of complex processes which every living being possessed. Jim wondered what it was like to be that self-aware. He thought it would be a little creepy, but then again, it was normal for Vulcans. So maybe Spock's human half found it a little creepy, but it was out-voted by his Vulcan traits?

He considered this as he felt his eyelids begin to droop. More likely, it was just what he was used to. In a way, despite the creepy factors, it was probably also kind of reassuring. To have that level of control. That level of insight to yourself.

Then again, it set a pretty high standard. What did you do when your own loss of control was frightening to you, but that very fear itself was a sign of your lost control? Jim didn't have anything against emotions, personally. If Spock had decided that he didn't want to adhere so much to the standards of his people, he wouldn't care – in fact he'd probably support him in it. But that wasn't the issue, was it? When he lost his control, it was just that. A loss of control. He didn't get to be himself anymore. He did things which he wouldn't ordinarily do, if he had the willpower to override his emotions, and that, Jim thought, was the important part. Spock's will, feelings or no.

_I'm thinking too much,_ he decided, as he finally gave in to his body's requests for a proper night's sleep, regardless of the early hour.

When he woke up, there was a phaser on the nightstand beside him.

---

**Author's Note:** Well, we broke 1000 reviews, people. You should all be very proud of yourselves! And I mean that, it's easy to _not_ review a story, and I'm completely floored by all of your support. I just keep scratching my head and looking at the number and going 'what, all of that for _my_ story?' But it is apparently so, and I appreciate all the moments people set aside to let me know they're enjoying themselves.

On Pon Farr – I don't think this is going to be huge deal in this fic. Spock's first Pon Farr is still _years_ away. Also, getting any Vulcan to talk about Pon Farr is like pulling teeth, so he's not just going to start yammering on about it.


	14. Chapter 14

Jim glared accusingly at the weapon, as if it offended him through its very existence. Which is sort of did. Then he sighed, and rolled over, hearing the soft sounds of activity coming from the bathroom and wondering what time it was. He'd slept deeply, he could tell – it felt like he hadn't even moved at all during the night, his limbs were so stiff and awkward. _Shouldn't have fallen asleep like that,_ he thought, regretting the odd position he'd adopted for the sole purpose of Spock-watching.

Speaking of which, he was only just considering moving to a more upright position when the bathroom door slid open, and his first officer strode out, looking like his usual immaculate self.

"Hey," he rasped out by way of greeting, and then winced. His throat had not survived the night with much dignity.

"Good morning, Jim," Spock replied, in a tone which was, by his standards, quite friendly. Then he strode over to the desk, activating the Starfleet computer console which was on it. "I am afraid that I will be unable to join you in your activities this morning. Now that we are here, there are several projects which have requested my insights," he said, in a direct, matter-of-fact tone that was almost too much for Jim's barely-awake mind.

"Oh," he contributed valiantly, and then set about casting his gaze around for a clock.

Spock glanced at him. "I am informing you of this so that you do not believe I am simply avoiding your presence," he explained, his fingers moving fluidly across the console. "Would you be willing to joining me for lunch?"

His tone turned almost tentative as he extended the invitation. Jim blinked.

"Sounds good," he replied sleepily, and then he swung his legs over the side of the bed. He missed seeing Spock's eyes dart across the fading bruises on his bare back, from where he'd hit the wall the day before last. He didn't miss the way his friend's posture tensed, and he suddenly withdrew from his friendly manner a little bit, turning colder.

A stiff nod of agreement was the only response he got. Jim decided he wasn't awake enough to start playing 'guess what's wrong with Spock', and so wandered into the bathroom instead.

By the time he'd wandered out again, now fully awake and capable of dealing with odd Vulcan mood-swings, Spock was gone. With a sigh he walked back towards the nightstand, and looked down at the phaser. He'd said he'd carry it.

He didn't say he'd _use_ it.

It felt like he was getting ready to go on an away mission as he affixed it to his person, and then debated on what to do next. He had the options of A: calling the old Spock up so he could yell at him, B: beginning the doubtless agonizing process of getting Starfleet's administration off of his back (now that he knew they were _there_), and C: calling Bones and seeing if he was up for a quick breakfast.

He settled for C. Breakfast had a time limit on it, after all.

Walking over to the console, he found out what room the CMO was registered in, and sent out a video call. He knew that Bones had opted to stick around headquarters and work on some of his research while they were grounded. Now he was glad of it.

The call 'rang' for some time before a familiar, disgruntled face blipped into existence across from him. "Jim?" Bones grunted. "Why in the hell are you calling me at-" he paused, glancing somewhere to his left, "six in the morning?"

Jim grinned. "Oh? Is that what time it is?" he asked, not feeling nearly as apologetic as he should.

"Goddammit, man, you better be calling to tell me that Spock's _dead_, because anything else doesn't deserve to get me out of bed this early on vacation," Bones grumbled back at him. Jim laughed.

"No, Spock's fine," he assured him, and then his brain momentarily hesitated over that answer, because it wasn't exactly true. But he wasn't going to allude to that. "I just thought you might want to meet for breakfast."

Bones looked at him like he'd grown another head. "Aren't you in Canada?" he asked. Jim's grin widened.

"Nope," he replied. "We drove down yesterday. You know me – I can't sit still."

He decided to take the grunt he got by way of response as acknowledgement.

Bones agreed to meet him for breakfast, albeit with much dark muttering and swearing involved. Jim happily left the sparse, tiny quarters, looking forward to it – on the ship he'd taken most of his meals with his surly friend, and even though Spock was excellent company, he was also completely different. He had to walk halfway across the complex to get to their agreed upon place, but that at least gave Bones time to wake up. More or less.

When he got there, he was greeted very warmly.

"God damn you, what the hell kind of a friend wakes a man up at six a.m. to take him to a place that serves _cantaloupe_ for breakfast?" Bones demanded as they found their table, and were immediately provided with drinks and a bowl of fruit as appetizer.

Jim gave him an amused look. "Hey, Bones? _You_ picked this place," he replied.

His response was a very non-committal snort.

"Well I wouldn't have if I'da known they'd go all cantaloupe on me," he muttered, and then, the very picture of hypocrisy, picked up a cube and popped it in his mouth. "So. You and the hobgoblin having a relaxing vacation?"

Poor Jim, who had been drinking his quite welcome glass of water, nearly sprayed it onto his friend. Bones immediately realized his danger as he sputtered, and leaned back as far as his chair would allow him to.

"Should I take that as a 'no'?" he asked.

When Jim finally felt like it was safe to talk again, he shook his head. "It's definitely a 'no'," he agreed. "I'd think I was still on duty, but nobody's called me 'sir' in too long."

McCoy grimaced. "Well, what the hell did you expect, running around with _him?_ Good lord, how anyone would want to vacation with a _statue_ is beyond me. I been wracking my brain trying to figure out what you're up to since you told me," he said. Then, as if it had just occurred to him, he added: "And what in god's name was that crack about me and your mother?"

"It isn't _Spock's_ fault," Jim defended, deciding that it would be best not to mention the mood swings, and not wanting to broach the topic of their little joke just then. "We've just been unlucky."

Bones' eyes narrowed. "What's wrong with your voice? What did you do to your throat?" he asked suddenly, leaning forward, as if he intended to peer down through Jim's mouth. Naturally, Jim did not oblige him.

"I just had a little mishap, that's all," he said, taking his own turn to lean back and wondering if his voice really did sound strange. Listening to himself as he spoke, he supposed it sort of did. Damn but the good doctor was too observant for his tastes sometimes.

"A 'little mishap' for you is mortal peril for another man," Bones replied cynically, and Jim flinched, remembering what Spock had said about internal parts melting and hearts nearly stopping. Unfortunately for him, his friend caught it, and scowled. "Out with it! What happened? Do I need my medical bag? Dammit, I knew I shoulda brought it…"

"I'm fine!" Jim insisted. "Spock took me to a hospital. I swear, they told me I could leave and everything."

It was no good, however. Eventually Bones ground the story out of him, and once he had, he was Not Happy.

"Let me get this straight," he said, his voice low and a little growling. "You went and got drunk, then drank some freaky alien hangover remedy, then went to brush your teeth and _nearly dissolved_ yourself, and then got admitted to a hospital where they gave you something _else_ that almost killed you?"

"…Yes."

"Goddammit, Jim, _what were you thinking?_ You realize you could have _died?_ I leave you alone for a few days, and you're getting into bar fights and poisoning yourself left and right! Hell's bells, what do I have to do, pin a note to you that says 'Hello, my name's James and I'm a suicidal masochist! Please don't encourage me!'?"

"Hey!" Jim exclaimed, offended. But he couldn't really think of anything else to follow it up with. Alright, so, if you laid it all out then he looked like an idiot… and if you took it in pieces he looked like an idiot, but that wasn't the point.

Whatever actually _was_ the point might have been eluding him, but Jim was very clear on what it was not.

Bones glared at him for a while, and muttered a bit, and then subsided. "So," he said, changing the topic rather than continuing his rant. "What are you doing with our illustrious first officer, anyway? If I'd known you were that desperate for someone to go home with you, Jim, I'd have done it. You didn't need to go asking anyone who'd listen."

Jim shook his head. "It wasn't like that," he replied. "I was in the shuttlebay, and I saw him pretty much break it off with Uhura."

There was a pause.

"…And you went up to _him?_" Bones asked, giving him an incredulous look. "Look, Jim, I know you're not an amateur when it comes to the ladies, but when that sort of thing happens, it's generally a better idea to go after the girl you've been panting over, not the rival who won her."

This awkward moment seemed to be an opportune time for Jim to eat some fruit. So he did. The little café was nestled amongst several, a group of casual restaurants located near the academy and headquarters to serve the Starfleet personnel who spent all day there. It was bright and airy, and really very lovely. "This is a nice place," he noted, looking around.

It didn't work.

"Alright," Bones said, planting both his hands on the table with a 'clap'. "Out with it. What's going on?"

"Nothing's going on!" Jim insisted.

"_Some_thing's going on," his friend shot back. "Or else you wouldn't be so twitchy."

Was he being twitchy? Jim noticed the way his leg was jiggling, and immediately stopped it. He frowned. Then he sighed. Then he folded his arms against the table, and lowered his head with a dull 'thunk'. "I don't _know_ what's going on," he groaned.

Bones sighed. "Dammit, what'd you jump into this time?" he asked.

Jim took a moment. Then he peered back up at Bones, seeing written clearly across his expressive face the picture of exasperation, and fondness, and concern.

"Have you ever thought Spock was kind of… attractive?" he asked, before he could rethink it and stop himself.

Fond, exasperated concern was gradually replaced by a vague look of horror.

"Jesus, Jim," he said. "I don't think there's enough whiskey on Earth. Hell, there's probably not enough alcohol in the whole damn _Alpha Quadrant_ for that."

Jim lowered his head back onto the table. "That sucks," he said. "I was hoping it might be universal or something."

Bones gave him an odd look. "You were hoping that finding _Spock_ _attractive_ was _universal?_" he asked, in a tone which very much implied that he'd just tasted something awful. Jim just gave a weird little half-nod, half-shrug. "Should I go out on a limb here and assume this means that _you_ find Spock attractive?"

"I'm _screwed_," Jim replied, finally looking up again. "I can't take it, Bones. I mean, I find out that I really like the guy – we actually get along_,_ and he is _awesome_ – and my sex drive has to ruin it!"

There was a long pause.

"…_What_ in the _hell_ are you talking about?" Bones demanded, giving him the patented 'dammit, I don't speak **crazy**, Jim' look of his. "And please don't tell me you slept with him. Or if you did, for the love of god, don't give me any damn details. My nightmares don't need the help."

Jim frowned. "Of course I didn't sleep with him!" he protested. "I'm not stupid. If I sleep with him, I'll lose him."

There was another long pause.

Bones planted his face into his palm.

"I can't believe we're having this conversation," he muttered. "Good lord, Jim, you are so addle-brained sometimes it's not even funny."

Jim bristled. "What's that supposed to mean?" he demanded, straightening a bit and scowling in annoyance. He wasn't addle-brained. This was a completely, understandably disastrous situation.

Bones' look of fond exasperation was back.

"_Spock_, Jim?" he asked. "What the hell do you even – on second thought, don't answer that. I don't wanna know," he decided. Then he sighed, shaking his head. "You sure can pick 'em, can't you? Is it that whole green thing again?"

"_No_. And I don't have a 'green' thing – don't bring that up," Jim replied. Surely it wasn't that difficult to see? So yeah, okay, Spock fell a little outside of his usual tastes, but he was an adventurous guy. It shouldn't have seemed _that_ weird.

Bones took pity on him. "So, as little as _I_ can understand it, you like him?" he asked.

Jim nodded.

"And you're – god, Jim, _Spock?_ – I mean, you're attracted to him?"

With considerably more misery, Jim nodded again.

Bones sighed and leaned back into his seat. "Well I'll be damned," he said. "Welcome to the grown-ups club."

His comment earned him a confusedly offended look. "…What?" Jim asked.

He wasn't expecting to get laughed at. But it seemed that his ability to predict the circumstances of his life had been shot to hell recently. Bones just started chuckling at him.

"Ah, Jim, only _you_ would think it was weird to _get along_ with a person you were attracted to," he mused. "D'you know there are folks in this world who, god forbid, _only_ feel attracted to people they get along with?" This was said with a trifle amount of bitterness on the doctor's part.

Jim glared. "I know that," he defended. "…Intellectually. But that's not me."

Bones rolled his eyes. "Yeah, well. That's because your emotional growth stunted when you were about fifteen."

Jim glared some more. It didn't seem to have much effect.

That was how their server found them, with one warring between looking supremely amused and incredibly disbelieving, and the other trying to burn a hole through his skull with his eyes. Neither one of them looked up at her.

Turning, she decided to give them a few more minutes and then come back.

"Listen, Jim," Bones said at length, finally getting over his intermittent chuckles. "I'm not gonna say it isn't weird. Personally, I thought Uhura was nuts, too. What you see in him, I don't know, and I'm more than pleased to keep it that way. But this is the first time I've ever seen you actually torn up over something like this."

Jim sank a bit, losing his glare as he regained his awkward, somewhat miserable expression. "It's a disaster, Bones," he agreed.

His friend's gaze softened somewhat. "Oh, damn, Jim. Quit acting like this is such a bad thing," he advised. At that, Jim's expression turned to one of genuine confusion.

"Isn't it?" he asked.

Bones' gaze softened yet more. "Well, I can't speak to your _taste,_" he admitted. "But then I never could. If you're this caught up about him, though – well, hell, people go _looking_ for that all the time. So quit panicking."

"…People go looking to develop a physical attraction for their friends and first officers?" Jim asked skeptically. He honestly couldn't see what Bones was driving at. Didn't he get it? Being attracted to Spock was _very bad news_. It presented him with the awful choice of indulging in his body's desires, and losing a friend, or resisting temptation – which was a lot easier said than done. Not to mention the fact that his more carnal inclinations were very one-sided. Although that did simplify the choice considerably.

Bones gave him a hopeless look. "Alright, Jim, I know you're a little slow about this, so I'll spell it out," he said. "When you enjoy a person's company, think they're really fun to spend time with, like their personality and their funny quirks and all a that?"

"…Yeah…"

"And when you also think they're fine looking, and want to – you know – indulge in pleasures of the flesh with them?"

"…Sure…"

"And you worry about how they are, what they'll think, and don't want to lose their companionship… do you know what we call that?"

Jim gave him a blank look.

Bones waited for a minute. But the blank look wasn't replaced by any sudden epiphanies.

"It's… oh, _hell_, I can't do this," he concluded instead of answering, looking supremely uncomfortable. "You'll figure it out. Now where's the damn waitress?" He turned in his seat, looking for the server. Seeing the movement, she came over, and minutes later had gone off with their orders.

When she'd gone, Bones cleared his throat. "So. Why're you armed, anyway?" he asked, gesturing towards the phaser which Jim was wearing. The sudden change in topic was a bit jarring, and it took Jim a moment to stir himself out of his own thoughts, and trying to figure out was his friend had been driving at before. He glanced down at the weapon, and then back up.

"Oh, this?" Jim asked, feigning nonchalance. "I just thought it might make me look badass. You think it's working?"

Bones frowned. "I think it's illegal, if that's true," he replied.

"Hey, I'm a captain now," Jim protested. "I'm allowed to arm myself, especially when I'm off my ship." Plus he was fairly certain that his meticulous first officer would have procured all the proper paperwork for his armament. Spock was good like that.

His reply earned him a dry look. "Yeah, right," Bones said. "I don't know if you've forgotten, but Earth's a _Federation_ planet. You don't need to go hauling a phaser around. So what's it really for?" His blatant curiosity didn't bode well.

"Impressing girls," Jim lied without missing a beat. Then he filled his mouth with breakfast, thereby giving himself an excuse to refrain from further comment. He could tell that he wasn't fooling anyone, and that his evasiveness was bothering Bones, but what else could he say? 'I'm carrying it around because Spock asked me to shoot him if he went crazy'? He couldn't explain that without also explaining the Spock-going-crazy part, and the guy was humiliated over that enough as it was. "So, how's life in Starfleet Medical? Still all boring and shit?" he asked between bites instead.

"Dammit, would you quit calling my work 'boring'? Just because you don't have an interest in what it takes to patch people like _you_ back together doesn't mean I – oh, god damn you, Jim, don't try and distract me!" Bones suddenly exclaimed, fixing him with a narrow gaze. "You're not weaseling out of it that easy."

Bones was right – Jim didn't weasel his way out of explaining with any ease. But he managed it nonetheless, although towards the end of the breakfast it became less about _evasion_ and more just stubbornly refusing to talk. He could tell that he was wearing his friend's patience thin, but what else could he do?

Finally, his would-be interrogator gave up. "Alright, fine," he said. "Keep your damn secrets. But whatever it is you're up to, can you at least _try_ and keep from giving me a heart-attack when it all blows up in your face? I'm too young for that shit."

Jim grinned. "Sure," he said breezily.

It earned him a suspicious look, and then a very reluctant nod.

"Don't worry, Bones," Jim couldn't help but add, feeling a little guilty over causing him even more stress than he was naturally prone to all on his own. "Nothing's going to come of it." Then he stood, the meal over now, and clapped his friend on the shoulder. It was peculiar how little charge the action carried, when compared to the few casual gestures he'd exchanged with Spock over the past few days.

"Right. In a pig's eye," Bones muttered back, not looking the least bit mollified. Then he sighed and bid Jim take care of himself, clearly thinking it was a largely useless gesture as he did so. With a nod and a wave, Jim took off, glancing back just in time to see his friend mouthing the word '_Spock?'_ to himself with an expression of wry bemusement.

"It's not that weird!" Jim called back at him, walking backwards for a few steps and narrowly avoiding collision with a table.

Bones' gaze snapped up to his retreating form, and he scowled. "The hell it isn't!" he called back, and Jim laughed.

Because, really, what else could he do?

Jim thought about their conversation all the way back to his and Spock's shared quarters, however. Something about it kept tickling at the back of his brain, as if a part of him had figured something out, but the rest of him just couldn't seem to see it straight. He found himself shying away from that sensation, and whatever it was carrying – sliding over it like raindrops on plastic. It was as if he had become suddenly aware of the existence of a dark room. It had always been there, just ignored, and now that he knew of it, he was presented with the option of continuing to ignore it, or investigating further.

His explorer's instincts pressed for investigation. But the rest of him held back, as if it already knew what he'd find, and couldn't face it yet.

So instead he sat himself down at the computer terminal. He decided to reserve the conversation with good old Spock for when his younger counterpart was around – and no, he wasn't procrastinating. Just… being _efficient_. Instead he left Scotty a message, asking if he'd been keeping up to speed on the ship's progress, and how Scotland was, and then sat back and thought.

For a change of pace, his thoughts weren't about Spock. They were about Starfleet.

People with authority, Jim knew, tended to dislike him as much as he tended to dislike them. Taking orders had always been a problem for him, even in grade school. He didn't trust people not to misuse any power they had over him, and so he chafed at supporting the idea that such power even _existed_. He was talented, and smart, and he knew those things very well – to the point where several of his academy instructors had wanted to wring his neck. Nothing got a person's blood boiling like an arrogant young asshole who was right all the time.

But, he would admit, actually being _in_ an authority position had forcibly changed his perspective on some things. Take, for example, Chekov. Talented kid. One of the bridge crew's many gifted prodigies, in fact. But he was only seventeen, and damn, but it _showed_ sometimes. Even though he was technically smarter than a lot of the older officers, he just didn't have the experience, or – god forbid – maturity to handle a lot of duties. So he still needed to take orders from people whose technical jobs he could do in his sleep. Experience actually did _count_ for something.

Jim was pretty sure that he was smarter than a lot of the Starfleet higher-ups who were looking down their noses at him. But he was still just in his twenties, the youngest captain in Starfleet, and all of his intelligence and creativity and everything that made him want to be master of his own destiny couldn't change the fact that he was _new_ to this. Grudgingly, he could then – in a very small way – admit that there was _some_ sense in keeping a close eye on him.

It was very, very grudgingly. And he'd never say it out loud. Ever. But it was there. The _Enterprise_ was now the Fleet's Chekov.

But there was a difference between necessary supervision and peering over a guy's shoulder all the time. Spock seemed to think that he should just let them hound him a little, and keep doing his job, and wait for it all to blow over. Jim's ego, however, wasn't going to take it lying down. Either he was a captain who could perform his duties, and should therefore be treated as such, or he wasn't, in which case they shouldn't have promoted him. And they couldn't take back the damn ceremony _now_, not unless he gave them a good reason to. Which, so far, he hadn't.

So how did one go about bulldozing through Starfleet administration?

Jim gave a frustrated sigh as the answer came to him.

Damn.

He'd have to brush up on regulations. Because there were really only two options - he could either flatly refuse to complete more than the bare minimum of paperwork, which could be grounds for an investigation and _even more_ scrutiny of himself, or he could do what he was good at. Which was figuring out how to turn their own game against them. But, as Spock had also said, he was still largely unfamiliar with a lot of the administrative process.

With another sigh, he started calling up the necessary topics at his terminal. At least he had access to the academy's computer from here – that would make it easier.

The next few hours were passed in the horrible monotony of reading about sub-sections, regulations, 'proper channels', and just about anything else which had to do with Starfleet's enthusiastically convoluted processes. He already knew the essentials, of course. How to file mission and incident reports, paperwork for noting things like field promotions, property losses, ship damages, and all of that. Hell, he could even _marry_ people now, which was a little weird to think about. But what he needed to find out was how much of what they asked him for fell into the normal parameters of a starship's operations, and how much of it he could send _back_ to them with very polite, reasonable inquiries as to why the additional information was requested.

That was his current plan. He was going to play innocent and annoy the _shit_ out of them, like a little kid who wouldn't stop asking 'why?' every five minutes. He knew from personal experience that it could be a very successful means of getting people to just stop talking altogether.

He didn't even hear the door to the room slide open at about five to noon.

His fingers _did_ still over the computer panel when a shadow fell gently across his shoulder, however, carrying with it a familiar little tremor of body heat as Spock leaned over and said, very near to his ear: "Fascinating."

Jim's stomach gave a wild flutter. His head jerked up – which was a mistake, because then he was looking directly into a pair of curious, glittering black eyes which were oh so very close by him now. They widened marginally, as if realizing their proximity at the same time, and Spock took an immediate step back.

He forced himself to ignore the tiny pang of disappointment he felt.

"You are researching Starfleet's administrative practices," Spock noted, not moving terribly far away, but immediately regaining his customary expression.

Jim swallowed.

"Yeah," he replied, trying to regain his equilibrium. "It seemed like a good idea."

It really was strangely captivating, that line which ran from the curved tip of Spock's ears, only to split off into the dip of his neck and the turn of his jaw. Someday, it would not be captivating anymore. As Jim pushed his notice away from that line, he wished someday would hurry up and arrive. But the moment was fortunately brief, and then the next instant, he was simply Spock again – no longer a collection of lines and smooth and dark which drew him in with such frightening ease.

But those things were still there. Part of it. He heaved an internal sigh.

"When we have returned to duty, if you wish, I would be more than willing to offer my aide in such an endeavor," Spock volunteered.

Jim nodded, swallowing hard. "Thanks," he said. "That sounds… good."

Spock inclined his head.

"So, uh," Jim barreled on. "How were those experiments, or whatever you were doing?" he asked, rising from the desk.

"My observational skills were requested for several botany projects designed to clone Vulcan plants based off of unfortunately degraded samples," Spock informed him, his tone easy, and more confident than it had been for a while. His eyes smiled at Jim. "I believe I was able to offer useful insight, despite the fact that botany is not a particular field of interest for me."

They fell into step with one another, not even really discussing where they were going as they left, and Spock talked about things which Jim wouldn't have ordinarily cared about. At all. But because Spock was talking about them, and clearly interested, he found the conversation far from boring. Of the sciences he only really had interests in physics and mechanics. His first officer's range of knowledge and understanding, on the other hand, was far more extensive.

Still, even with his obvious talent for scientific comprehension, Jim thought that Spock had been more interested when they were initially exploring his mother's home city. His curiosity was like Jim's. He wanted to know not just how things worked, or why they did, but to see where they were different – to find _new_ things. That, Jim thought, was more compelling for him than examining what was already there.

He smiled, unaccountably pleased to have noticed this thing they shared in common. Spock glanced towards him, noticing the shift in expression, and his flow of words momentarily halted.

"What is amusing you?" he asked, gaze fluttering down to Jim's mouth, and his posture straightening somewhat.

Immediately, Jim forced his unplanned smile to tone itself down a little. "Nothing. Sorry," he replied. "I was just thinking…" he trailed off, unable to bring himself to finish the sentence and inform Spock that he was grinning like a madman because of, well, Spock.

After a moment, Spock simply nodded. "Very well," he said. "If you feel able to share them, I would not be adverse to hearing your thoughts."

The invitation was open, but not pressing. Jim nodded his acknowledgement, and they continued, soon enough re-wrapping themselves up in the blanket of conversation. In the end they didn't even bother getting a proper lunch, opting instead to walk in the open air, talking. Jim learned more about Vulcan plants than he'd ever cared to know. He found his own contributions to the discussion more minimal this time around, which was something of a mercy for his still-recovering throat.

All in all, it was beautifully peaceful, even if Spock seemed very careful not to stand too close to him again.

---

**Author's Note:** I love Bones. I keep putting him in wherever I can. Anyway, another slow chapter, but hopefully nobody minds. On the subject of how much longer this story is going to be - I don't honestly know. My outline is pretty basic. It's got the points I want to cover (like 'Jim realizes he's attracted to Spock and flips out' or 'Go to San Francisco') but how long it takes to cover those points varies _wildly_, and sometimes I fill in extra stuff just because the moods strikes me, or somebody suggests something and my brain goes running off with it. Anyway, thanks to everyone who has and will review! See you guys tomorrow, if all goes well!


	15. Chapter 15

After his 'lunch' of basically just wandering around and chatting with Spock, Jim bid his friend goodbye to return to his projects, and grabbed a hot dog from a local vendor before he headed back to his own. He found a message from Scotty waiting for him. His Chief Engineer had apparently cottoned on to the fact that Jim was writing him in order to circumvent Starfleet, and took a few minutes to agreeably rant on the topic of convoluted information systems. Then he confirmed that, yes, he was having a good vacation, and as near as he could tell the ship's repairs would be completed by tomorrow evening. Nothing had gone horribly awry, or required his direct attention.

So, Jim went back to the tedium of concocting his uncommonly subtle scheme. But after a while his brain and his feet both started to get antsy. Once he'd re-read the same sentence four times in a row, and still couldn't make heads or tails of it, he gave it up for the sake of some stress relief. The academy gym was a pretty sweet facility, well equipped even if it was decorated kind of like the inside of a pumpkin. It was an orange sort of day, though, and he could use a proper work-out.

Making up his mind, he slipped into his gym clothes, and headed off. The place wasn't too crowded – he knew from experience that it would pick up towards evening. There was some kind of hand-to-hand combat course going on, and one guy towards the back who was wearing, of all things, red stretch pants, but otherwise it was almost a ghost town. Jim loosened up, setting about some simple warm-ups, his thoughts wandering abstractly as he slipped his focus into the movements of his body.

It was a familiar place to lose himself to. The pull and give of each motion, the warming, welcome sense of exertion beginning to climb up as he eased into a practiced routine. He wondered if Spock ever worked out. He'd never known him to, not on the ship, and something about the way he moved implied that he didn't. At least, not in any way that Jim was familiar with. He supposed that, given their natural physical strength and abhorrence of violence, most Vulcans wouldn't see much point to working out. Unless they needed it to keep fit. But alien physiologies could be really convoluted that way, and if Spock was just naturally skinny, it was likely he didn't bother.

_Maybe he should,_ Jim considered, as he felt his emotional stresses and anxieties begin to ebb, the presence of his body taking precedence over their influence. It was extremely cathartic. Unwinding. But then again, such a thing might not even work for a Vulcan, who would be so meticulously aware of their own body already. _I'll ask,_ he resolved.

It was funny how his mind kept straying to Vulcans in general, and Spock in particular, as he worked out. He realized that he'd never seen a Vulcan with eyes that weren't brown, or hair that wasn't either dark or grey. Or skin that wasn't a lighter shade – which was strange, really, with them coming from a desert planet. But with an alien species, who could say? He wondered if they came in as many physical variations as humans, and it was simply his ignorance at play in the lack, or if they were just less diverse as a species in that sense. He thought about the pictures he'd seen of the colony, and wondered if he'd ever set foot in it. If he even wanted to. Spock probably would, if for no other reason than to be among his people again at some point.

Just thinking about it was giving Jim a sunburn, though. He considered what kind of SPF a person would need to wear for the colony, which was on a world that, mostly, had the same dry, exhausting heat as its predecessor.

Not for the first time, he also wondered what it was like for Spock to be on a generally colder world like Earth.

But he didn't think too deeply, most of himself content to simply move.

The sound of a low whistle caught his attention. Rising up from the internal world of his passing thoughts and fluid motion, he caught sight of a familiar face sauntering towards him from across the room.

"Jim. Darling. So I'd ask how you're doing, but I don't think I need to. You look _good_," Marlena said, twisting one dark lock around her finger as she walked towards him, sharp eyes traveling his form like a predatory cat's.

Jim stopped, a deer caught in headlights, and began to look for some immediate exit route. There was a window nearby, but it didn't open wide enough to fit him. The other option was to try and dodge past her, but he knew from experience that she was very quick, and came with sharp nails.

He graced her with a self-conscious, nervous smile. "Hey, Marlena! I didn't know you were… uh… still here, and everything." Well, a lot of cadets had died during the _Narada_ incident. He honestly hadn't known whether or not she was one of them, or if she'd continued her education afterwards. There had been plenty of impromptu promotions other than his own, as well.

Okay. So. The fact that he was carrying a phaser around was actually starting to look like a good thing as Marlena closed the distance, her steps very calculating and precise.

"Hmm, yes, we lost touch, didn't we?" she purred, adopting a coy smile which at some point he'd thought was very alluring. That was before he found out she was _crazy_. "I can't help but wonder why."

Jim took a few steps back. There was another window. He glanced it, but didn't keep his eyes off of Marlena for long. "You told me that my career wouldn't go anywhere, and then slept with our Tactical Maneuvers instructor," he reminded her helpfully. Not that he'd been terribly broken up over it. In fact, his biggest shock had been that she seemed to think they were in enough of a relationship to merit _telling_ him such things. But that wasn't the worst thing about Marlena. Oh no.

She pouted at him. "I thought we agreed to forget about that," she said, as though scolding him for his poor memory.

He winced. _That_ was the worst thing about Marlena. Because ever since they'd had their hook-up in his first year, she had hunted him down every few months, asking that they essentially let bygones be bygones and go at it like bunnies again. And for a while he'd gone along with it, riding her strange, emotional rollercoaster in exchange for some fairly wild sex. But after a time he stopped being able to take her little freak-outs, or how she'd blow so hot and cold about him, one minute insisting that he was the best man she knew and then the next bad-mouthing him to anyone who'd listen. She'd kiss him. Then she'd slap him – sometimes literally.

It got old, and it hadn't taken him long to figure out that her mood towards him often directly correlated to his testing scores and standing within the academy. She was ambitious, and seemed to think that part of ambition was sleeping with the right people. So he could only imagine what she might produce from her bag of tricks now that he was a _Captain_.

"It was silly, you know," she said, taking a few more steps towards him. "I've always liked you. I can't imagine why we ever split up."

This was a familiar dance. Not a pleasant one by any stretch of the imagination, but he'd seen that look and heard those words from her a dozen times before.

He glanced again. The second window was opened wide enough.

The trouble with Marlena was that she was crazy. He'd tried telling her that he didn't like her, wasn't interested, and that she should keep away before. It never worked. He might well have reported her for stalking him a couple of times, if his masculine pride had allowed it. Which it hadn't. He could stand there and say 'go away, I hate you' as firmly as he liked, in as many different ways as he could think of, and she would just laugh it off and persist. _Everything_ rolled off of her back, short of measures he wasn't capable of.

Deciding, Jim took a breath, and then made a mad dash for the window.

The trouble with crazy people, however, is that they will generally chase you where others would simply let you run.

Jim squeezed through the window, wincing a bit as he scraped his back with more force than he'd have liked, then landed on one of the little islanded gardens around the building and took off at a dash. An irritated shriek and a 'thump' behind him let him know that he was being followed.

"I'll catch you, Jim!" Marlena called after him, her voice midway between playfully flirtatious and genuinely pissed.

_How the hell does she keep passing her psyche evals?_ Jim couldn't help but wonder as he put his legs to good use. He pelted recklessly between buildings, out into open walkways and a wide courtyard, past steps and students and sculpted shrubbery. Many people stopped to gape as he sped along, Marlena chasing after him with admirably terrifying speed. Some, seeing that it was a young man literally _fleeing_ a young woman, laughed or chuckled. Others marked their passage with shock or surprise.

Jim didn't pay them any mind. He was hoping he had better stamina than his pursuer, although past experience told him it would be a near margin.

Glancing back, he was only able to make out a flash of dark hair and the red of her cadet uniform, and couldn't really gauge if she was gaining on him or falling behind. Evasive maneuvers were probably in order. Jim ducked inside a random building, tearing through several hallways and corridors before emerging through another exit. It was no good. She was still chasing him.

_Quarters,_ he decided, thinking he could get back to the rooms and lock the door against her. At least until Spock returned, and hopefully she'd give up and leave before then. Making in abrupt left turn, he pelted his way in that direction.

"Stop _running!_" Marlena called from behind him.

Fortunately, Jim tended to compulsively _dis_obey direct commands.

"Stop chasing me!" he called back instead.

The residential building looked like heaven. Which was quite remarkable, considering that it was a distinctly plain, grey building. He dashed inside, whipping straight past some poor sap on their way out, and his shoes squeaked along the clean floor as he made a hard right and booked it for the end of the hallway.

On Delta Vega, when a certain unfortunate and distinctly terrifying creature had, for unknown reasons, decided that his bony human form looked like good eats, he'd managed to escape into a cave occupied by the elder Spock. Who had then proceeded to scare the monster off via a handy torch, thereby saving his life and earning Jim's very sincere gratitude.

When he all but tumbled into his quarters, desperate and out of breath, he found that _another_ Spock was occupying his intended safe haven. Based on previous experiences, then, his next actions were only logical.

"Save me, Spock!" he declared impulsively, running behind his first officer as Marlena slammed a hand against the door to keep it open. She was breathing heavily and looked murderous.

Jim had one hand clutching Spock's elbow, thoughtlessly, as he used him as a living barrier, peering out at his pursuer from over the half-Vulcan's shoulder. Spock was still and rigid, obviously caught by surprise.

"Don't mind him," Marlena instructed with false sweetness, keeping her gaze fixed on Jim's. "We're just having a lover's spat."

"We are _not,_" Jim protested vehemently, feeling an unexpected plunge in his gut as she declared them to be lovers in front of Spock. "I haven't spoken to her in months. She broke up with me! Nine times! She's crazy!" he insisted.

"_Jim!"_ Marlena declared, in a dramatic, hurt tone.

_Oh, shit,_ Jim thought, as she started in on the waterworks. He tightened his grip on Spock, completely uncertain what his first officer's impression of all this was, given that he couldn't see his face.

"I can't believe you'd _say that_ about me!" she sniffled, looking for all purposes like she was trying not to sob.

Jim scowled. "Why not?" he demanded. "The last time I saw you, you broke my dorm room window and told half the academy that I couldn't get it up in bed!" Which had been a hard sell, really, given his very deserved reputation as a playboy.

"You think _I_ spread those vicious rumours?" Marlena asked, still sniffling and attempting to look very much the injured party. "How could you? You know how special you are to me."

Spock shifted slightly. For a moment, Jim was terrified that he'd decide this was clearly none of his business, and leave him alone with Marlena. But then he spoke.

"So you do not deny breaking his window?" he asked in his most neutral tones.

Marlena blinked at him.

"What?" she replied.

"His window," Spock repeated. "You claim that you did not spread malevolent gossip regarding him. But that is not the only complaint he has made."

"Well…" she hesitated, clearly not very certain on how to approach Spock, who was probably a very tough nut for her to crack. "I was angry, and hurt. He left me."

"I didn't!" Jim denied, and then hastily clarified. "I just wouldn't get _back together_ with you again. And I still won't!"

"But _why?_" Marlena protested, some of her temper snapping through. Then she glared at Spock. "You see? We need to talk. Can you leave us alone? Please?"

Alarmed, Jim snaked an arm around Spock's waist, holding him in place. "Don't," he asked. "She's really crazy."

"Stop _calling me that!"_

"Well maybe I would be able to if you didn't keep proving me right!"

Spock was a rigid as a steel rod in his grasp. "Clearly," he said, in somewhat clipped tones. "Your continued affiliation is no longer mutually desired. Further discussion between the two of you would only increase the current levels of antagonism. It would be logical for you to abandon your pursuit at this point, before the situation escalates."

At Spock's conclusion, Jim relaxed a little, loosening some of his grip. Marlena glared at him.

"Please leave," Spock added.

"This," she said, pointing directly at his first officer's face. "Is none of your business. If anyone should leave, it ought to be you."

There was a pause. Jim assumed that eyebrows were being raised.

"I am registered to these quarters," Spock replied evenly. "Additionally, I have been requested to remain. It would be illogical of me to leave."

Then he took an abrupt, unexpected step forward. Having loosened his grip on him already, and not anticipating the move, Jim let him go. He strode purposefully up to Marlena, extending one hand towards the door controls, and subsequently blocking the entrance. "Remove yourself," he instructed. Jim still couldn't see his expression. But he kind of wished he could, because whatever he looked like, Marlena's eyes widened at it, and she actually took an obedient, instinctive step back.

The door hissed shut.

Jim let out a breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding. He sagged a little, leaning against the desk and trying to regain his equilibrium.

"You," he said, once he'd recovered. "Are the best friend ever."

Spock was still standing by the door, looking at it intently. He turned around at this comment, though, and his posture was tense and rigid, expression unreadable. Immediately, Jim felt some of his relief fade away. He'd dragged Spock into the middle of an awkward situation. That hadn't been the most helpful thing he could do for him, given the circumstances. He'd probably disrupted whatever his first officer had come to their quarters for – maybe peace and quiet, or solitude for meditation, although the candles weren't out so at the very least he hadn't interrupted.

"…Perhaps you should put a shirt on, Jim," Spock suggested after a tense moment, and looking down, Jim realized that the article of clothing he'd stripped from himself during his exercise was, indeed, still absent. He'd been too busy fleeing in terror to think about it, or remember taking it off in the gym.

Suddenly he was very self-conscious of the fact that he was sweaty and half-naked in a small room with Spock.

"Uh, right. Yeah. That's – maybe I should just jump in the shower, first," he reasoned, before making a somewhat stilted move towards the bathroom. "Hey, uh, sorry about all of that," he couldn't help but add.

"Do not concern yourself," Spock replied, going back to keeping his gaze fixed on the door. One of his hands was clenched into a white-knuckled grip, which wasn't promising. "Although, if she is as unstable as you claim, her instructors should be made aware of it. She may require counseling."

"She requires _expulsion_," Jim said with conviction, momentarily forgetting that he was supposed to be leaving the room. "I mean there's crazy, and then there's _crazy,_" he mused, earning himself a curious glance, which was then swiftly retracted. Lost in thought, Jim, instead of heading into the bathroom, began to elaborate on the disaster which was Marlena.

He wasn't sure why, but it was important to him that Spock was aware of the fact that he didn't like her, and had absolutely no intention of indulging in her whims ever again.

Once he got going on the topic he started pacing the room in mild agitation, his hands gesturing and his voice rising and falling as explanations and frustrations spilled from him. He forgot himself, and only realized that he might be pressing the wrong buttons when he noticed that, now, both of Spock's hands were clenched, and that the eyes following him had a kind of unreadable intensity lurking behind them.

"Jim," Spock said, sounding strained.

He stopped, catching himself, and gave him an apologetic smile. "Right, sorry," he said, realizing that he probably didn't smell exactly like a bed of roses, and that he was making his friend uncomfortable. "I'll just – yeah," and on that note, he finally slipped inside the small bathroom.

Then he walked back out to get his bag, which would be the only place he could reasonably expect to find a replacement shirt, and went back in again.

When he emerged he was clean and clothed, with his hair only slightly damp, and his skin flushed. His gaze immediately sought out his first officer, who was sitting in the furthest corner of the room, his hands folded together and his eyes shut. Meditating. Only he was clearly doing a very casual job of it, as he hadn't lit any candles, and after a moment he looked up at Jim.

He answered the glance with another apologetic smile.

"Your taste in romantic affiliations would seem to leave much to be desired," Spock informed him, and then blinked, as if he hadn't entirely meant to say as much out loud.

Jim's apologetic smile faded into a slightly nervous one. He cleared his throat. "Yeah, well, Bones seems to think so too."

Spock tilted his head slightly. "Indeed?" he said. "I was unaware that Dr. McCoy had any interest in your love life."

Nervousness turned to confusion. Spock closed up a little, and Jim guessed that he was still on edge, which would explain why he was – in tone, at least – lashing out a little.

"We've been friends for a while now, Spock," Jim said patiently, and then, on impulse, collected the meditation candles from where his friend had set them aside. He began putting them around the room. "And he's always pried into my stuff."

Spock watched him move about the room. "May I inquire as to what you are doing?" he asked.

"Setting up your stuff," Jim replied easily, and then went about lighting the candles as he placed the last of them, hoping that the locations weren't _too_ important, because he doubted he'd remembered them all correctly. "You need to meditate. I'll get back to my research while you do," he reasoned. "Don't worry – I'll be quiet."

He glanced over at Spock, whose expression was unreadable again. But after a moment, his head inclined in acquiescence, and he re-adjusted his position, adopting a slightly altered pose.

"Very well," he agreed. "So long as you do not leave. I suspect that your former friend is still intent on tracking you down."

Jim winced. "Agreed," he said. Then he sat down at the desk, attempting to keep his movements minimal and quiet.

"Jim?" Spock asked after a beat, surprising him. He looked up, but his first officer hadn't moved, and his eyes were closed.

"Yeah?" he asked.

"Should I expect many more women of her caliber to accost you while we are here?"

Jim chuckled a little, and shook his head. But of course, Spock couldn't see the gesture, not with his eyes closed. "Nah, Marlena's pretty unique in her level of insanity," he assured him.

"I see," Spock replied, and then fell into a more earnest silence. Jim left him to it. The now-familiar scent of the candles was still pleasant to him, and he found it helped him focus his attention on the tedium of his own task.

After a while, however, it also began to make him drowsy.

The end result was an odd, disjointed sort of fuzziness, where his mind processed the information fairly well, but his thoughts stayed distant and foggy. He lost his sense of time as he quietly scrolled through pages of text, the experience far from captivating, but not entirely unpleasant.

Hours had passed by the time his attention was drawn back into reality. His stomach, dissatisfied with the lone hot dog he'd eaten for lunch, made the current state of affairs known with a low growl. He gave it an accusatory glare, and when he looked up, Spock had opened his eyes, and was staring at him intently.

"Sorry," he said, with a shrug.

"Do not apologize," Spock replied. "You have no control over such functions." Then he rose, fluidly, from his place on the floor, and began to blow out his candles.

"You don't want to try and go back to it?" Jim asked, watching him.

Spock gave him a glance. "You are hungry," he said. "We should rectify that situation." Then, almost as an afterthought, he added: "I, too, require sustenance."

And that, as it seemed, was that. Jim closed down the computer console, and in companionable silence they set off. Spock seemed to have regained most of his equilibrium. They found a simple establishment, fairly close by, and Jim took the opportunity to question him on his meditation as they ate. Some concepts were rather tricky to put into words, but Spock answered his questions as best as he was able to.

"So why is Earth so tricky?" Jim asked at length, after the edge had been taken off of his hunger, and he was finishing the remainder of his meal more sedately. "I mean, other than the fact that it's different."

Spock considered this. "An interesting question," he said. "Particularly given that my difficulties in using it as a focus point are largely connected to its 'difference'. Earth is a more mutable world than Vulcan was," he explained, eyes distant in thought. "It is also more diverse, and less familiar to me. These factors make reconciliation complicated. Additionally, Earth is extremely bountiful in its water supply."

Jim blinked.

"That makes a difference?" he asked. Spock inclined his head.

Apparently, it did.

"Meditation is based largely on perception," he explained. "My perception is based, in turn, upon facts and logic. Therefore, the most tangible facts of difference between one focus and another create the greatest obstacles in substitution."

Jim wasn't quite sure he got it – it sounded less like logic to him than it did instinct, or some kind of abstract, spiritual thing. But he decided to take Spock's word for it anyway. Vulcan logic, he was beginning to understand, wasn't quite as clinical as it could sometimes seem. It was unemotional, but there was a certain level of tradition and antiquity carried with it that kept it far from being a robotic concept.

Emotionally, he could understand what Spock was driving at. It was like trying to move house from a place that was sunny and desert-dry to one that was full of trees and mist and wet, sandy beaches. The difference required more than a little adjustment.

"You know, there are lots of deserts on Earth," he said, considering. "Maybe it would help you to visit some of them."

Spock seemed to consider this, and then inclined his head again. "Perhaps the next time there is an opportunity to return here, I will," he agreed. Jim grinned.

"We could probably go rock-climbing," he suggested. "And camping. Maybe we could get Bones to come with us, too, he likes that kind of thing."

"…You would wish to accompany me?"

"Of course!" Jim replied, already thinking that his current vacation with Spock would have been vastly improved if they'd just avoided the rest of civilization altogether.

Spock blinked. Then he stared. Then, very slowly, one corner of his mouth ghosted upwards to accompany the laughing, bright expression of his eyes. It was clearly an unintentional gesture on his part. But Jim found his thoughts scattered to the wind as he sat there, hand stilled and shocked, on the receiving end of Spock's smile.

"Then, I will look forward to it. Provided the opportunity should arise."

If he was any less enamored with his job, Jim might have considered sabotaging his own ship at some point, just to make sure that it _did_.

He'd never had somebody completely short-circuit him with a smile before. It was a strangely giddy experience. His mouth dried out, and for the first time, he wondered if his attraction towards Spock really _would_ just wear off. Because, clearly, that particular beast was running a whole lot deeper than he'd thought.

Then the moment passed. Spock seemed to catch himself, and his face slipped back into its standard expression, although his eyes remained expressive and friendly. For the rest of the meal, and all the way back to their quarters, Jim did his damndest to try and get that smile back again. But though he did seem to be engaging Spock a lot, he didn't succeed.

By the time they were back in the dull sanctuary of their shared room, _Jim's_ mouth hurt from smiling and laughing so much, so he supposed that was something at least.

It almost completely slipped his mind that he had planned to call up the other Spock when he had access to the younger. But when he went to sit again at the computer console, and his mind rebelled at that thought of _more_ studying, he recalled it.

"Oh, yeah," he said softly to himself, earning a curious glance. He looked back at Spock. "We should try and send the old man a call. I want to know why he lied to me."

"You refer to my alternate self?" Spock clarified, suddenly closing in a bit. Jim nodded, and his friend moved over, standing just behind him as he set things up to send out a transmission.

"Yup. He's the only old man I'm on speaking terms with, anyway," he reasoned. "Unless you count Pike. But I haven't talked to him since the medal ceremony."

Spock was quiet as he got ready to send a message. Then Jim paused, hesitant, as he considered what to actually write. Having his first officer peering over his shoulder wasn't helping his decision any. And then his brain shut off completely when, unexpectedly, Spock leaned over, moving one hand around him and onto the console.

"If I may?" he asked.

It took Jim a minute, but eventually he managed to nod. One-handed, Spock began to fill out a brief message.

_To Ambassador Spock,_

_Inquiring after your conduct with regards to an incident involving James T. Kirk, Captain of the U.S.S. Enterprise, on planet Delta Vega, Stardate 2258.72. Request that you respond promptly._

_S'chn T'gai Spock._

"…Huh," Jim said, taking in the very brief, almost rude message as his first officer then promptly sent it out. "What was that stuff you put before your name at the end?"

Spock glanced at him. "The entirety of my name," he replied.

"You mean, 'Spock' is your last name?" Jim asked. But a slight movement of Spock's head told him that, no, that wasn't the case.

"Vulcan names have different structures," he explained reasonably, moving his arm back to his side.

"Oh," Jim said. Then he considered the strange composition of letters he'd seen. "Sa-chen ta-gai Spock?" he sounded out experimentally. He missed the slight twitch at the corners of Spock's lips. But then his attention was immediately caught as his first officer proceeded to say something utterly unpronounceable. Even the 'Spock' part sounded off.

Jim looked at him, startled.

Spock gave a negligent half-shrug. "You should not attempt it," he advised. "Humans are incapable of producing the necessary sounds."

So, of course, Jim tried anyway. He wound up working himself into a coughing fit as he attempted to force his throat to produce sounds it wanted no business with. When it passed, he looked up into a concerned gaze.

"Why did your human mother give you a name humans can't say?" he asked, put-out.

"She did not," Spock replied. "_S'chn T'gai Spock_ is the name my father gave me. The name my mother gave me is perfectly pronounceable to humans."

Curious, Jim frowned a little. "What's the name your mother gave you?" he asked. It earned him a very patient look.

"Spock," his first officer said.

Oh. Right.

---

**Author's Note:** Just so everyone knows, if anyone wants to: translate this fic into another language, archive it on some other site, quote me, steal ideas from it, or do any of the other things I've been asked, feel free. Just be sure and credit me as the author, except on the idea-stealing - ideas are free. I'm frankly flattered that anyone wants to. Next chapter: conversations with Spocks.

Also, I tried to find a bitchy Starfleet girl whom Kirk dated in TOS, but the man didn't really like fishing off of the company pier, so to speak. I went with Marlena, since she was fairly unpleasant in the Mirror Universe, and we didn't see enough of her in the prime one to know if she was much different there.


	16. Chapter 16

Jim passed the time waiting for a reply from the elder Spock by pestering the younger one to make sounds which humans couldn't. Fortunately, Spock didn't seem to mind very much, and obliged him by going through a variety of noises which his throat could produce. Together they sorted out which ones Jim could also make, and which he couldn't. It was actually quite entertaining.

They didn't have to pass _a lot _of time, however, before the alert sounded on the computer console. Turning, Jim agreed to accept the video signal which they were receiving, and was greeted by a familiar, serene expression.

At first. Then the elder Spock's eyebrows rose slightly.

"Jim," he greeted in some mild surprise, his gaze moving between the two young men staring expectantly back at him. Then he closed his eyes briefly. "I see you have uncovered my misleading suggestion. I apologize," he said with some sincerity.

"Hey, that's okay," Jim answered, almost automatically. The other Spock gave him a swift look, and he hastily caught himself. "But why did you do it?"

It was kind of surreal talking to them both at the same time. For one thing, they had the same name, so he wasn't sure what he'd do if he had to address either of them by it. Somehow he didn't think it would be wise to just use 'old man' and 'my Spock' as he tended to internally. 'Old man' would go off without a hitch, he was sure. It was the other one that gave him pause.

"It was my intent to manipulate circumstances so that the two of you would have an opportunity to know each other," the elder Spock replied bluntly, looking like a man who did not regret his actions as much as he regretted their necessity.

"That is the reason you gave me for your initial deception," the younger Spock said, before Jim could respond. His tone was distinctly cold, devoid of inflection and yet a little biting at the same time. "Why did you not correct his misinformation the second time you spoke?"

His counterpart met his stare evenly, unruffled by what Jim realized was, by their standards, an accusatory manner of speaking. "It is as I have said," he assured them both, clearly including Jim in the conversation despite the fact that he wasn't looking at him. It made him feel fond of the old guy again, since he didn't like being left out. "If you had known that I could speak to myself, Jim," he continued, moving his gaze over to him. "Then it is likely you would have simply arranged for us to converse. I did not wish to rob you of the opportunity to garner insight to the relevant issue. It seemed logical to conclude that aid rendered through _you_ would be received more openly than advice given by myself."

The younger Spock stiffened. "I have taken your advice in the past. On what do you base your logic?" he demanded.

His elder self gave him the same patient look which Jim had been on the receiving end of not a few minutes ago. "It was based upon your most likely motivations for failing to adjust your meditative practices independently," he replied. "You are intelligent enough to do so. It therefore stood to reason that your failure to was based in an emotional issue. Friends, in my experience, are better suited for aiding with those than confusing old men."

"Well," said Jim. "You _did_ say he confused the hell out of you." Much as he didn't like being manipulated, this was probably the best reason _why_ that he could have hoped for. The elder Spock had, quite obviously, been very good friends with his alternate self. Jim could only assume that the man either hadn't been attracted to him, or had possessed a _lot_ of restraint, or, as Jim was planning to, had just waited it out. He seemed dead-set on making sure that he and his own Spock got a good chance at developing the same friendship.

He liked both Spocks. He could live with that. And he could admit, even _with_ the set-up, it was his own choice whether he wanted to be friends with the younger Spock or not. There'd been no pushing. Some nudging, but that was kind of like putting two people on a blind date – romantic reference notwithstanding. You could sit them both down at the table, but what they did afterwards was up to them.

Just to be sure, though. "You didn't think it was funny, did you?" he asked.

Both Spocks looked at him – one unreadable, the other faintly sad.

"No, Jim," the elder Spock informed him. "My intent was not to mock or belittle you. I have only respect for your intelligence and integrity, and indeed, those were the qualities required to ensure that my deception was successful. A lesser man may well have risked the universe."

Jim's throat constricted, and he felt a warmth spread through his chest at the genuineness of that sentiment.

He was a little surprised when his chair was moved sideways, and the younger Spock suddenly inserted himself between the two of them, cutting off most of his view of the video screen in the process.

"Very well. That matter has been dealt with, and we have now established that you are, indeed, more manipulative than I," Spock said. Jim blinked, and wondered why he'd been forcibly removed from the center of attention. He liked it there. Especially when the attention was coming from two very engaging half-Vulcans. "Now I wish to know the details of your mind-meld with Jim."

"What is it you wish to know?" the elder Spock asked, and though Jim couldn't see his expression, he thought he sounded just a little bit amused.

Slowly, Jim attempted to move his seat back towards the computer screen. He was hindered by the younger Spock's hand, which came to rest at the side of his chair, halting its motion. Of course, he could have stood up, or made some kind of loud protest, but he was a little curious to see what his first officer was trying to pull. Maybe he wanted to make certain that he had his other self's full attention? Perhaps his emotional instability had kicked in and he was on some kind of weird power-trip?

It was probably better to wait it out, either way.

"Did you manipulate anything within the sphere of his consciousness while you were in contact with his mind?" Spock asked, cutting right to the chase.

There was silence from the computer screen. Jim tensed, and internally flinched, feeling guilty about asking this question, even as his own insecurities waited with baited breath for an answer. It wasn't his idea. It wasn't his accusation. It wasn't even, particularly, a fear of his, but he felt like he'd just taken his phaser and shot at the old man nonetheless.

And it occurred to him, as he sat there, the other Spock's hand so close by him – if he really _had_ been changed… did he want to change _back?_ He didn't think that the person he'd been before he met Spock was better than the one he was now.

In fact, he was pretty damn sure that he was not.

"Are you capable of such a thing?" the elder Spock asked the younger, his tone low, now, and gravely serious. Beside Jim, his own Spock was rigid, and his hand gripped the chair tightly.

"I do not know what manner of person I may become in a different world, and many years from now," he replied with a haunting sort of detachment to him.

"There are some lines which we will never be able to cross."

"So your answer is no?" the young Spock insisted.

There was another pause. Jim craned his head over, trying to get a better view of the screen, but he was blocked again. He frowned in annoyance at Spock's back.

"My answer is as I have given it," the old Spock replied, neutral but still quite serious. "Now. I must cut this transmission short, as there are many pressing matters which require my attention here," he continued, and Jim wondered if his Spock would break the back of his chair. His fingers were digging little grooves into it. "I apologize again, Jim, for my deception."

"All's forgiven," Jim assured him, waving an arm out around Spock and in front of the screen.

"Between you and I, it always was," the elder Spock replied, some friendliness creeping back into his voice.

The younger Spock grasped his arm and lowered it, his hold gentle, despite the tension he'd been demonstrating earlier. "He is not the Jim Kirk you knew," he reminded his other self.

"…He is as close as I shall ever come again," said the elder, and for some reason, Jim felt like a hand had just reached inside his chest and squeezed. "Live long, and prosper."

Then the transmission ended.

"Why were you so _mean_ to him?" he demanded of his Spock, once the screen had gone blank.

"He is manipulative and purposefully evasive," Spock replied. "And I was not 'mean'."

Jim snorted. Great. Now he felt like shit. "You were being an ass," he accused. "Couldn't you have asked him a little more nicely? You know, made it seem like you thought he might have done it by accident, or something?"

Spock rounded on him. "Do you not find it more anomalous that _you_ should be so defensive of _him_?" he asked back, his eyes narrowed. "What has he done to merit such trust from you?" His tone was vaguely suspicious. Back on this old kick again.

"Well he saved my life, for one thing!" Jim replied. Then he sighed, and sagged a little. Across from him, Spock also seemed to withdraw from some of his temper. Albeit very slowly. "Why shouldn't I like him? He's a nice old man who, as far as I can tell, has only lied to me once – and since he did it so I could get to know _you_, I'm going to take the high road on that one and let it slide."

He was a little caught up in his thoughts, so he wasn't prepared for Spock to lean over, locking their gazes dead together. Surprised, Jim looked straight into his eyes. They were deadly serious – not angry, not anymore, but very severe and solemn.

He wondered if they would continue to be so expressive once his first officer had regained full mastery of his emotions.

"What would you have me do, if he has butchered your mind?" Spock asked quietly. "If he has taken what you were and reshaped it into someone else? Shall I treat such violations as permissible?"

Jim shuddered. Then he swallowed, hard, and resisted the urge to reach out to his friend, who so obviously needed _something_. "Spock," he said. "My mind's a lot of things, but it's not _butchered_." Of that, at least, he was pretty damn sure. They stared off at one another for another moment. Then Spock relented.

"It was a poor choice of words," he admitted.

"It was a poor choice of _ideas_," Jim countered. "Listen, you heard him. He pretty much said that messing around with my brain was a line he'd never be able to cross."

"He implied it," his first officer corrected. "As he has already demonstrated, his implications are not reliable."

Frustrated, Jim suddenly reached out, and grasped Spock's wrist. He pulled his hand up so that it was hovering just alongside his head. Spock had frozen, still as stone, his skin warm beneath Jim's fingers, eyes widened in shock. "Then _check_," Jim advised, swallowing down the stewing mess of butterflies and fear which scorched through him, the nerves pounding in his heart. Part of him was burning with curiosity – what would it be like to have this Spock mind-meld with him? _Was_ he any different, were there any changes to be found in his mind?

Part of him anguished over what would happen if Spock didn't like what he saw. If he really _didn't_ have any idea that Jim was attracted to him, or was _still_ attracted to him, and if such a discovery would disgust him even more. He could hate what he saw in Jim's mind. He could find something changed, and change it back, and then Jim would be, if nothing else, different from how he was now. Maybe he really _wouldn't_ like Spock anymore.

Maybe that would be a relief.

Spock's fingers twitched, and Jim took in the look on his face, and realized he was being a heel. He let go. Immediately, swiftly, the hand was retracted, and his friend took a quick step back.

"I cannot," Spock said quietly. "It would be dangerous for me to attempt it while I am unstable."

Jim nodded, not meeting his eye.

"I…"

He looked up at the hesitating tone, at last, and caught just the faintest glimpse of insecurity in Spock's face. It was gone as quickly as it came, replaced by a kind of quiet resolve. "I will meditate," he said. "I will devote the night to it. If we make the attempt in the morning, while my focus is strong – then it should suffice."

Grateful, nervous, and several other things he didn't care to put a name to, Jim nodded. He felt the strongest urge to do –something. To touch Spock, to make some connection and reassure, instinctively, as humans did through touch, that he was invested in him. But he resisted it.

He found that he couldn't just stay in their quarters, however.

"Maybe I should call Bones," he suggested. "See if he can put me up for the night. Then you'll be able to focus better."

Spock hesitated to respond, for a moment, but then he gave his slight nod. "That is logical," he agreed.

Decided, Jim moved the chair so that it was back in front of the computer, giving his first officer a speculative look as he did. "Why did you move me, anyway?" he asked. Spock straightened.

"You were exhibiting an extremely positive reaction towards my alternate self," he replied, almost a little defensively. "If your mind has been manipulated, it is logical to assume this is a forced impulse. I wished to minimize it."

Jim gave him a blank look.

Sometimes, Spock just sounded kind of crazy. He shook his head a little, but left it at that.

Unfortunately, Bones' quarters were a single, but he was more than willing to offer Jim his floor. Jim decided to take it – it wouldn't be a comfortable night, but, he decided, he and Spock both needed some space from one another. When he announced his intentions, Spock gave him a curious look.

"I believe I have a more logical solution," he said, and then began to gather up his things. "If the doctor is willing, he and I should exchange sleeping arrangements for the night."

Jim blinked. Well, it _did_ make sense, sending the lone man to the single room, rather than trying to cram two people into it. He called up Bones again and ran it past him.

"Jesus, fine, if it all works out," he agreed. "I'll get my things, then. Where are you, anyway?"

He gave him the location of their assigned quarters.

"Goddamn, halfway across the damn complex…" Bones muttered, moving to pull his scattered belongings into a nearby bag. Jim watched him with some amusement, contrasting his hectic motions with Spock's careful methodology. It was a little funny to consider that he was friends with _both_ of them.

"I'll cut the connection," Jim offered graciously, realizing that the good doctor was now well and truly distracted. "See you in a minute."

"Huh?" Bones muttered. "Oh, yeah, you go ahead and do that."

Jim was treated to a last image of his friend whirling around, asking the air where his socks had gotten to, before he shut off the console and turned to Spock, who was now neatly packed and waiting patiently. He hesitated, not really sure what kind of goodbye would be appropriate.

"I will see you tomorrow," Spock provided diplomatically, and Jim nodded at him, watching him leave.

Then he was left to his own devices for a good twenty minutes or so. He leaned back in his chair, staring up at the stark, empty ceiling above him, and swinging slightly on the swivel base. After a minute, he let out a soft huff of breath, and ran a hand along his face. This whole Spock business – maybe he _would_ be better if turned out to be some kind of sham. But the thought was very hollow. He didn't like it, as simple as that.

He wondered what Spock's expression had done to scare off Marlena like that. And he wondered what Spock's mind had been thinking – not just today, either. It was probably ironic to want to know what was going on inside a telepath's head. It was definitely annoying.

Damn.

_Was _he brainwashed?

He was starting to think that this whole equation would lead to madness. He'd go insane wondering if he was actually the person between his own ears. Then it probably wouldn't matter, because at the very least he wouldn't be allowed to captain his ship anymore. Spock would probably get promoted to captain again.

If he hadn't gotten to know him, Jim might have begun to suspect some sort of very circuitous form of sabotage on the part of his first officer.

He sprang from his seat when the door chime sounded, but Bones let himself in anyway.

"Did you know that crazy woman you used to date's been hounding around here?" he asked without preamble, thumping his bag down by the door. Jim's face fell.

"What, _still?_" he asked.

"Caught you earlier, did she?" Bones asked back, and then leaned down, stuck a hand into his bag, and pulled out a bottle. He shoved it into Jim's hands. "Here. Brandy."

Jim looked at the bottle, then at his friend, then at the bottle again. "I love you, Bones," he declared with feeling. McCoy just rolled his eyes.

"Oh, sure, you figure _that_ one out," he muttered to himself, causing Jim a moment of perplexity which he banished for the sake of hunting down glasses. Drinking seemed like a good idea. He was mindful of the fact that he shouldn't actually get _drunk_, however – not if he planned on going through with his slated activities for the morning after. Somehow he didn't think Spock would be very cooperative if he started puking on his shoes.

Pouring two glasses, he kicked back with Bones in the small quarters' two comfortable sitting chairs, and relaxed into the easy company.

"How's your throat?" the doctor asked.

Jim shrugged. "Better. Fine, actually," he replied. "You know me – I bounce back quick."

He got a grunt as reply. That was followed by a long, quiet moment, as the two men nursed their drinks and turned their thoughts over in their minds.

"So," Bones said at length. "You and your overgrown elf have a spat?" Jim glared at him. He raised a hand defensively. "Well hell, Jim, what am I supposed to think when you call me up to tell me you want to bunk together to get away from him? What happened? Or do I not wanna know?"

He kept his glare up for a moment, and then, with a sigh, relented. "Nothing _happened_," he said. "He just needed to meditate. It's a Vulcan thing."

Bones gave him an assessing look. "…Sure," he said. "Ya know, I don't know if I like this thing with you and Spock. I've never known you to keep this many secrets before."

At first Jim bristled. But his defensive emotions didn't seem to be holding on to him very well, and after a minute that, too, subsided. He kicked one of his feet out a little and leaned back against the taut material of his chair. "It's just the one secret, Bones," he admitted. "And it's Spock's – not mine." For good measure, he added: "I already told you _mine_."

His friend regarded him quietly for a moment. Then he shook his head. "Damn. I hope he's worth it," he murmured into his glass, and took a drink. "Well, if he tries anything, remember that you've got a friend with legal access to a good many lethal substances."

Jim gave him a wry look. "Did you just offer to protect my _virtue_ from _Spock?_" he asked.

Bones snorted. "Virtue? You?" he replied. "Hell no, Jim. For godsakes, I'm a doctor, not an idiot. You do have that soft and squishy underbelly a yours, though." He tipped his glass. "Now that, I'd keep an eye on."

"_Soft and squishy underbelly?_" Jim asked, looking vaguely horrified. "Where do you even get this shit?"

His friend's eloquent reply was to tap his temple, and wink.

"Don't worry," McCoy assured him. "That secret's safe with me, too."

Jim could only shake his head. He knocked back some of his drink, and wondered when he'd become so transparent. A reputation as _soft_ was something he'd like to avoid. Although, now that he thought of it, he supposed that he didn't really want to be seen as a hard-ass, either. Just being generally awesome would be preferable.

"I gotta say, though," Bones continued. "You didn't do me any favours with painting that whole picture of you and Spock. Now I got this image in my head that just won't shake loose."

Jim gave him an intrigued look. "Image?" he asked, before he could think the better of it. Damn. Wasn't he supposed to be getting _over_ this whole Spock plus Sex thing?

He needn't have been terribly worried, however. "Yeah," the good doctor grumbled. "It's you and him in this field a daisies." He shuddered. "Now I can't even enjoy daisies."

"…I know people say _I'm_ the messed up one, but I gotta tell you, Bones, sometimes I wonder," Jim replied, reconsidering his decision to not get completely hammered. But no, that was still a bad idea, all in all. Tempting, but bad. And he was getting kind of good at that whole resisting temptation thing.

"If I'm messed up, it's only because of the company I keep," Bones assured him. "I swear, _everyone_ in Starfleet is out of their goddamn minds. Psychological evaluations my ass. If they actually pushed that shit the Fleet'd consist of… hell, I can't even think of anyone," he admitted. "Who makes it their life's dream to shoot themselves through a deadly vacuum inside a metal case that's got a bomb strapped to it? We're all mad as hatters."

"At least we get to meet sexy aliens," Jim pointed out optimistically.

Bones gave him a dry look. "I'd agree, if I didn't know the direction your tastes were leaning towards these days," he replied. Then he shook his head, as if the very notion of a person finding Spock attractive was sheer madness. "It's gotta be your green thing. I mean, I _know_ it's not his personality."

He didn't actually mean the comment as a barb, but Jim stiffened nonetheless. "It's-"

"No, _don't_ tell me," Bones insisted. "I take it back – you can be as crazy about his personality as you like. None of it's gonna make a lick of sense to me either way."

Feeling a little vengeful, Jim shot him a look out of the corner of his eye. "There's just something incredibly erotic about pointed ears," he said swiftly, before he could be interrupted. The look on Bones' face was priceless. It took him a moment to process the information, but then once he did, it was as if he'd downed a glass of that Andorian hangover remedy.

"Oh, _Jesus,_" he swore, and then gulped down the last of his drink and refilled it. "You're a real bastard, Jim, you know that? Now it'll be months before I can look at the man's head without feeling sick to my stomach."

Jim shrugged. "Maybe you'll get lucky and he'll grow his hair out," he suggested with feigned innocence. Bones leaned over and swatted his arm.

"If you do that to me again I'll request they transfer that Marlene or Mary Anna or whatever the hell her name is to the _Enterprise_," he threatened.

"_Bones,_" Jim replied, aghast. "Don't even joke about that. That's not funny."

The good doctor gave him a look. "Who says I'm joking?" he replied. "If nothing else, you'll get plenty of exercise running through the decks."

He shook his head. "Nah. I'd just have to spend all of my time hiding behind Spock." Then, because it seemed like a good idea, he took the opportunity to describe his recent mad-dash and subsequent rescue. Bones listened to his account with some interest. When he got to the part about Spock scaring the girl out of their doorway, his friend snickered.

"Damn. I'd have paid good money to see that," he confessed. "Spock rescuing you from your own indiscretions – he's probably still reeling from how 'illogical' you are."

Jim frowned. "What? You think so?" he asked. Bones glanced in his direction, and then gave an exasperated sigh.

"God, Jim, try and act a little less like a fourteen-year-old girl about it, would ya?" he beseeched. "It's giving me the heebie-jeebies."

His comment earned him a pair of narrowed eyes. "If I had something I could throw at you, it would be thrown. But I don't want to waste my drink," Jim informed him magnanimously. Bones just chuckled.

"Good man," the doctor said agreeably.

The conversation turned from Spock, then, as Jim didn't want to think about it all for a while, and Bones still couldn't quite wrap his head around the whole thing. Instead they talked about the news, and the ship, and Bones' medical studies (only briefly – Jim started falling asleep) and how the man's daughter was doing, which then led to grumbled complaints about certain ex-wives and their obnoxious new boyfriends.

He listened to his friend rant for a while, until the evening had worn on and eventually he found himself still sitting in his chair, in the dark, with an empty glass as Bones snored from one of the narrow beds. There were territorial alien beasts which had quieter calls. Still, he supposed there was something to be said for the sound knowledge that you weren't alone in a room.

Did Vulcans ever snore?

Probably not.

…

Was this starting to count as an unhealthy preoccupation?

With a sigh, Jim decided he was too tired to care, just then, and so hauled himself off to his own sleep. Fortunately he wasn't a light sleeper, or else he'd never be able to room with Bones. Not and retain any sort of sanity.

He woke very early the next morning, eyes snapping open to the dull, grey light of dawn. Bones had stopped snoring. Rolling over, he checked, but his friend was still there and still sleeping – just uncommonly quiet, for a pleasant change of pace. He wondered if it was the silence that had woken him. More likely, it was his own nerves. Either way he didn't seem to be in a position to go back to sleep.

With a soft sigh he climbed out of bed, feeling that lurching, unpleasant sensation that comes with being just slightly under-rested, and a little jumpy. Bones rolled over on his own bed, muttering something unintelligible under his breath, and Jim spared his sleeping form a fond snort before he wandered off to finish waking up. A few minutes later he made his way out of the room, not going far, but tracing a path outside and into the still cold of morning.

The air felt good in his lungs. It had a little bite to it, but not so much that he minded. These were the kind of little things that a person actually got to missing on a starship – things like seasons, and the smell of morning. Standing out in the open of a planet, with nothing but sky overhead, and breathing in a temperature that _wasn't_ specially regulated to suit his body's optimum preferences. He leaned against the outer wall of the building, and listened to the quiet.

Humans weren't telepathic. Or empathic. There'd been a few studies done which suggested that, as a species, they were capable of a certain level of perceptiveness which wasn't strictly dissimilar, but that was rare. The results of such studies were generally looked upon with a lot of skepticism, too. But Jim knew for certain that none of them were capable of the kind of thing he'd experienced on Delta Vega.

In a way, it _did_ make him feel like he had a distinct vulnerability. There were a lot of things which Spock could do that he just simply could not. The telepathy, and the fact that he was three times stronger, and could survive in heats that would kill Jim pretty quickly. His eidetic memory. They were curious traits, and sometimes daunting in a quiet, nagging way which he wasn't always capable of acknowledging. He wondered what it had been like for the early humans when First Contact had been made. You learn all at once that not only aren't you alone in the universe, but the aliens who've come to say hello can run circles around your brain without even breaking a sweat.

Humbling, he supposed. Except that no one ever envied Vulcans. Well, obviously no one was going to envy them _now_, but even when they were at the height of their influence and standing in the Federation, it was never an issue. Humanity had met Vulcans, and in a rare change of pace for their species at the time, they had suddenly developed contentment with themselves.

Jim had to admit, if he was somehow given the choice, he'd be quite happy to remain human. But right then, the addition of a few telepathic powers wouldn't go amiss.

"_He had access to your mind – your thoughts, memories, emotions, perceptions…"_

He shivered a little.

Then he scowled at himself, and steeled his resolve. As he'd said to one of his instructors after a series of unforeseen incidents had forced him to streak through a courtyard, he had nothing to hide.

Even when he had _plenty_ to hide.

After all, it wasn't like he could just chuck the whole idea out of the window. If he did then he'd always wonder, and Spock would always wonder, no matter what his instincts were telling him. Besides which, if it was anything like it had been the last time, then his friend wouldn't go rummaging around through his _entire_ brain. He'd just – just do his thing and figure out if there were any messed up parts. Right?

A person didn't have to go through an entire brain to do that, did they?

Damn. He didn't know. He'd have to ask.

It was hell to wait and be apprehensive like this. If he could have, he'd have marched straight off, found Spock, and gotten it over with. Better to just lunge in and regret it later than hover around it, letting himself think too much on the whole thing. But, he wasn't the only one with a stake in this. Even if _his_ brain was the subject in question.

It was some hours later when Bones found him, glaring at the skyline and the looking the very picture of tension. The good doctor shook his head, and leaned against the wall beside him.

For a time they simply stood there.

"How can I help?" Bones asked at length. Jim started a bit at the sound of his voice, and glanced towards him, confused and questioning. His friend met his gaze evenly. When he didn't reply, he sighed, and leaned his head back against the wall. "Dammit, Jim, I might not know what's going on, but I know _something_ is. You're brooding and carrying a phaser around – and you don't normally do either."

Jim didn't really know what to say to that. So he let the silence stretch between them for a while. At length, he relaxed a little, and folded his arms across his chest.

"Hey, Bones?" he began, and Bones looked towards him expectantly. "Would you say I'm… that I've been different since, you know, everything happened?"

He didn't meet his friend's eye as he waited for his answer, keeping his gaze fixed skyward instead. But he heard him shift a little.

"Well," Bones said, considering. "Yeah. Kind of."

Jim nodded, even as he felt his heart sink a little. 'No, not at all' would have been a more reassuring answer. But then again, he already knew _himself_ that he'd changed. The real question wasn't 'if' so much as it was 'why'.

"Do you…" he began, and then hesitated a little. But Bones was patient. He found his footing again. "Am I – am I _better_ now than I was before?"

Silence.

He managed to get a hold of his courage, always one of his strengths, and looked over at Bones, who was in his own turn regarding him with consideration. After a moment, the doctor gave a single, decisive nod. "Yup," he concluded.

Somehow, there didn't seem to be anything more Jim wanted to ask after that. So he just nodded, and pushed away from the wall. Bones followed him.

"Spock's waiting for you," he was informed, and then a warm hand clapped his shoulder. "So whatever the hell it is that's going on, good luck. I couldn't get a damn word out of him about it, either." Bones did sound vaguely disgruntled about that, but when Jim turned to give him an apologetic look, his friend was already heading off. Hands in his pockets.

He swallowed.

_Spock's waiting_. Well, at least he'd be able to get it over with now. He ducked back inside the unimpressive building and made his way back towards their quarters. When he got to the door, he didn't hesitate – if he had, he might have wound up turning around a running in the other direction. So instead he just marched straight through, his shoulders set and his steps portraying a certainty that failed in anything beyond the superficial. He was greeted almost immediately by Spock's calm, neutral expression, his friend islanded in the middle of the room.

"We should begin," he said, without any preamble. Jim gave a decisive nod.

Then they both just sort of stood there for a while.

Jim glanced around the room, which hadn't suddenly morphed any new décor in the past few hours. Then he looked back at Spock, who was simply standing there, regarding him.

He shifted and cleared his throat.

That seemed to work.

Spock took a step forward, his eyes mostly blank, his face expressionless. But there was a certain slowness to his movements which alluded to a lack of confidence. "It will not be painful," he assured him. "Additionally, I will do my utmost to avoid violating your privacy. If there are any thoughts you do not wish me to see, simply avoid thinking of them. Put them from your mind," he advised. "I will enlist your help in focusing my search to the relevant areas alone."

Jim forced himself to relax a little bit at this statement, and Spock's obvious attempts to keep him from being unsettled. He swallowed, and nodded, a gesture which held more friendliness this time.

"Let's just get it done," he advised.

Dark eyes searched his own for a quiet moment. Jim didn't know what they were looking for, or what they found. But after a minute his first officer inclined his head, and lifted his hand.

His fingers were light, at first, as they came to rest against Jim's face. Lighter than his elder counterpart's had been. He swallowed as he felt that odd, telltale buzz beneath his skin, particularly where Spock's index and middle fingers connected. Then the pressure increased, and low tones drifted to his ears.

"My mind, to your mind," he said.

_My thoughts, to your thoughts,_ his voice echoed within Jim's consciousness, as if Jim himself had thought the words, but had heard them with Spock's voice. And suddenly, he was not alone within the confines of his own skull – nor was he _confined_ to his own skull. A presence of Spock reached him. It wasn't like his physical form, but was more similar to a sound. And yet, much more vast, as well, encompassing those vague sensations of thought. Colours, scents, impressions, things which Jim's mind connected to his first officer and which his first officer's own mind connected to his self coalesced to form the psychic impression. It wasn't only Spock who received such treatment, either.

Jim had never associated himself with sunlight. Yet, in this place, he was hued with gold.

He felt his surprise, and Spock's surprise, because Spock was glittering black, like the vast expanse of space. Beautiful and mysterious in a darkness which held more promise than terror. For a moment they simply lingered there, in regard of one another. Every stray thought which either of them had floated to the surface – Jim's wonder and curiosity for an alien experience, and Spock's…

Spock's shock at finding a mind so suited to his own.

_We're suited?_ Jim wondered, posing the question to his counterpart even as it occurred to himself.

_Imminently, it would seem,_ Spock replied, and a tentative mixture of fear and hope and amazement trickled through to him.

That appeared to signal to Spock, however, that the moment for lingering had passed, and Jim could only drift alongside him as the experience became narrowed, more focused.

_Think of the meld with my other self,_ his first officer advised, and catching on, Jim obliged him. He remembered the chilling bite of Delta Vega – anger, resentment, embarrassment at being thrown off of the ship, fear for what would happen if they didn't do what he knew they had to – guilt from Spock, who then quickly cut off the emotion. He recalled the terror of fleeing the unnamed beast, crashing through the ice and snow, tumbling down onto a frozen lake. Finding the cave, and his salvation in a strange old man…

…Fingers pressed against his face, and then he was being grasped and pulled along. No tentativeness, as it had been with his Spock…

_Your Spock?_

…The Spock of his time, his equal. Not the Spock who had his best years behind him. He had sensed weariness, tired, painful anguish, such sorrow and guilt – and yet, underneath that, a sense of hope. Faith. The mind which met his _believed_ that he would be somehow able to help. Trust in his abilities shone through, as he had never before experienced it. Love. A young Jim Kirk, alive and well! He could do this! He could stop any more deaths, because he was _Jim_, and precious few were the things which he could not accomplish when he set his mind to it. The warmth of his own soul, the idea of being believed in _that much_, even if it was only a tremor, only an undercurrent to the feelings of agony, left an impression. He was carried through the memories of Romulus' destruction and Vulcan's, but this – this was the only thing which the meld had given him, the only way in which he had, on some level, been changed.

Someone out there _believed_ in him. Not just in his potential, but in all he was, and his ability to choose a path that would _see_ his potential fulfilled. He had not been consciously aware of it. The message had slipped to him below everything else, overridden by need and danger, and a sorrow so deep that it flayed him open. But it had been real, and the faith of another gave him faith in himself. Not simply a defensive, cocky assurance that he was talented. A true belief that he was _good_.

And then he was hit with sorrow. Not the recalled sorrow of the elder Spock, but sorrow from the younger, who fought to stop it from coming through. But he could see it, could feel it in his own heart. Because _Jim does not truly know me, does not truly see me. He reaches out instinctively for the affection he was granted by my other self. It is true, his regard for me is not natural…_

_Jim is too good to be true._

_But he is not._

_He is flawed and broken, and why would Spock think that he doesn't see who he sees? Jim knows what it is to be mistaken for something you are not. He has never seen the elder Spock in this one, and he does not seek him out for that reason, unconsciously or otherwise. He seeks the elder Spock out for such comfort, such reassurance. In the younger he sees…_

…_He sees depth and kindred spirit, so intelligent and alien, and yet not so different at all. Jokes which slide beneath a voice carefully disguised in neutrality. Pain, and strength, and a genuine kindness which cannot only be born of a pacifistic morality. Spock is mesmerizing. He is engaging. He is green shards in ice-cubes, and judgments never passed, and long, warm fingers which coil around Jim's arm, and heat and want and need and fear. Fear because he wants Spock, but cannot have him, is not wanted back and would not risk losing what he has for touch and taste and however few encounters between their bodies that he would get before it all fell apart, as every lover has fallen from him…_

_Fear for the dark room that whispers that his feelings for Spock are entirely different from those he has had for the lovers before him…_

Then Jim is hit with it, overcome with it – that he is sunlight. That he is the smile he wears, which steals Spock's breath and threatens to break down every wall he has ever built. That he is impossible, because he sees Spock at his worst, but he does not care, he comes back, always, even when he should not. And Spock is terrified, stricken to his core because this sunlight streaks through him, and sees past him, and yet he wants to be seen through. Jim is so many things that should not make sense to him, things that no Vulcan would understand. But Spock understands, and wishes to understand more. Wishes to explore him, all of him, to bring him to himself and feel cool skin heat beneath his touch, feel those hands against his own, but he cannot. He is too unstable. He is a disgusting creature, wretched in his impulses, for he fears that if he gave in he would not be able to stop. He would lose to his lust as he lost to his anger, and what Jim wanted would not matter, nothing would matter, he would possess him, devour him in the violence of his ancestors…

Jim blinked as he felt Spock suddenly withdraw, a sharp gasp escaping the half-Vulcan's lips as he removed his touch. He opened his eyes – even though he'd never really closed them. Both of them were breathing heavily, although it was more obvious for himself. He could feel his pulse thundering below his skin.

Oh.

Oh to _hell_ with it.

Before he could stop himself, before another move could be made, Jim took a swift step forward. He clasped one hand behind Spock's head, and then brought their mouths together. Despite the determination of his motions, the kiss itself was almost tentative. Soft. Simply a touching of lips, but Spock's mouth was warm and the thrill of the contact itself sent his nerves singing.

He wasn't sure how it would go. Would it be as he'd seen it between Spock and Uhura on the transporter pad, where he'd mostly just kind of stood there, and she'd moved against him? That didn't seem terribly exciting, and yet, since it was Spock, perhaps he shouldn't worry. Even this one simple touch carried more electricity than he'd felt in a very long time. And who knew? Maybe he'd just get thrown into a wall again. So, slowly, Jim began to move his mouth against the still one before him.

Arms came around him. One hand trailed up his spine to tangle in his hair. The other moved down, stopping against his lower back, the splayed fingers sending delicious tendrils of warmth through him as Spock slid his hand beneath his shirt. The lips against his moved with purpose, but some uncertainty. He was unused to kissing, Jim decided, or at least to kissing where he really tried to invest himself in it. It made him wonder, and for a moment, it was awkward. But then he moved his own hands, lowering the one from Spock's neck to his back, and placing the other against his cheek and jaw. He coaxed his partner's motions patiently, despite the heat which was swiftly pooling to lower regions of himself at their contact. After a moment he managed to invade the hot mouth against his, and found that the tongue within was rougher than most, and exquisitely stimulating. He moaned into the kiss.

Spock tightened his grip against him, bringing them flush against one another, and their mouths broke apart as both of their growing… _urgencies_ became apparent. Jim sucked in a ragged breath, and Spock moved his touch from his hair, grasping the hand against his cheek instead. As he watched, the half-Vulcan threaded their fingers together, his skin a more vibrant green than usual, and his eyes dark with an emotion which Jim realized he _could_ name.

He just hadn't been brave enough to put it together before.

"Spock," he breathed, feeling an odd tremor run up his arm from where their hands connected. Clearly, it was an erotic gesture, and his gaze fixed upon the interlocking fingers with intent. Their hands remained gripping each other as Spock leaned in and, very slowly, trailed his mouth along Jim's jaw, and up to the rounded curve of his ear.

"This is how Vulcans kiss," Spock whispered to him, as if it were a divine secret.

Inspiration struck him, and a mischievous, intense gleam came into his eye. Jim brought their joined hands to his lips. He ran his own fingers against Spock's, recognizing that there was a form to this which he was unfamiliar with, but feeling game anyway. Then he disconnected their grip, earning himself a brief, tiny sound of disappointment – just like a kiss severed too soon for the lover's liking – before he took Spock's index and middle fingers, which had buzzed the most against his skin, and encased them within his mouth, gently sucking them as he did.

Sometimes, Jim had very good ideas.

Spock made an _extremely_ interesting sound, and a bloom of fire spiked straight through him at the erotic buzz his activities inspired in his mouth. It was like French-kissing a very friendly forcefield, in the best possible way.

After that, he couldn't have stopped if he'd wanted to.

---

**Author's Note:** I'll just take a moment to remind everyone of a few things – firstly, that the goal of this story is love, not mad monkey sex. Secondly, that I'm not going to get any more explicit than what you just read. And thirdly, hmm, what was that Spock Prime said in the film about mind-melds sometimes having unintended emotional transfers…?


	17. Chapter 17

So.

The whole 'get over it' plan with regards to his sexual attraction for his first officer?

Yeah. It was probably safe to say he'd just shot _that_ to hell.

Jim had been drowsing a little, wrapped around a body which was uncommonly warm and pleasant within his arms, in a nest of blankets they'd yanked off of the too-narrow sleeping pallets and onto the floor. He began to wake a little more fully, realizing that he was being touched. His left hand's fingers were moved and stroked with precise, individual care, Spock turning them over in gentle examination, his thumb running absently along his palm.

"It is fascinating," Spock said softly, his gaze intently locked upon the contact. "Human hands do not possess the same internal complexities as those of Vulcans. Your mind does not connect to your fingers the same way my own does. Yet, I find them oddly compelling."

Jim grinned sleepily, and leaned over, noting that he had excellent access to one of his _own_ exotic preferences. He ran a tongue lazily across the tip of Spock's ear, and the half-Vulcan stilled, his breath catching. "Hey," he whispered. "There's no logical reason why I should find your _ears_ arousing, either. Still do." To emphasize his point, he then gave the ear in question a light nip. Spock snaked an arm around him.

_Hmm. Round two?_ Jim wondered, enticed, but then Spock just gave him a gentle squeeze and released his hold again, pulling away from him a little. He let their hands fall apart.

"We should not have done this," he said, unexpectedly.

The words seemed to fill the space between them with a sudden coldness.

Jim felt his heart plummet to the vicinity of his stomach. He froze, and stopped breathing, and looked over at Spock's inscrutable face, still flushed from their activities. No. How could he have screwed this up so _quickly?_ Granted, now that they'd slept together the clock would be ticking for when the whole thing went to hell, but he thought he'd at _least_ get… that they'd… he'd…

"What?" he breathed, somehow desperately hoping that he'd misheard. He pulled away a bit more, moving so that he leaned over Spock, searching his face for any hint of what was going on behind it.

A hand came up, and Spock's fingers brushed along his temple, the touch soft and electric and intimate.

It was a confusingly mixed signal. But Jim took some comfort from the gesture.

"Even with my night's meditation, I was not controlled enough," Spock explained quietly. "I let my insecurities pass through to you, and in response, drew our minds in a direction they should not have gone. Our mutual… _interest_ in one another created an intensified reaction."

Jim regarded him carefully, missing the touch of his fingers as they left his face. "So?" he asked, honestly confused. "If it was mutual, what's the problem?"

Spock met his regard evenly. "It was inadvisable," he replied. "And illogical."

_True,_ part of Jim couldn't help but agree. It had been simpler to resist his own temptations when he'd believed that his first officer didn't share them. Once he'd discovered that they were mutual – and, in fact, that Spock was in even _more_ of a state about it than _he_ was – resistance had seemed impossible. But now they'd crossed that line, and were drifting in dangerous space.

He sighed, and, impulsively, lowered his forehead to rest against Spock's, curling one hand around the side of his face and through his soft, short hair.

"You're bored with me already?" he couldn't help but ask a little dryly, feeling torn at the thought.

An instant later he had the breath stolen from him as Spock grabbed him and rolled them over, his mouth catching his in a whirlwind of heat and intensity and unmistakable desire. "_No,_" Spock said when at last they broke apart, breathing heavily. Then, with the barest sounds of frustration, he pushed away from him again. "Your assertion is incorrect. But this-" he insisted, gesturing towards their current, highly compromised state. "Is… complex."

Jim looked at him, still trying to gather his breath, and retain his sanity. He was beginning to suspect that Spock had a real thing for emotional rollercoaster rides.

"I don't know," he said. "Seemed pretty simple to me." Of course, it was important that a man should never confuse simplicity with _boredom_. He couldn't help the smug grin that particular thought provoked.

Spock's expression darkened with an unmistakable edge of hunger, and want, and _need_, and Jim felt his smile widen, responding to that heat. But instead of moving closer, Spock moved away, distancing them and clearly attempting to get a better handle on himself.

Even though he was tempted not to, Jim let him.

"Vulcans," his first officer said at length. "Do not do _this_."

There was an awkward pause.

"...I can't help but be a little skeptical of that, Spock," Jim replied after a beat, lifting himself up onto his elbows so he could get a better view of his first officer's expression. "Or else how do you explain baby Vulcans?" Before he could get a reply, however, realization hit him. "Oh… uh, unless you mean, you know, _gay_ sex. Vulcans don't have gay sex?"

Spock gave him a sideways glance. "That is not the issue to which I refer," he replied. "As I informed you once before, Vulcans view romantic interactions differently from humans. We have intercourse of both heterosexual and homosexual varieties. But we do not…" he trailed off, clearly searching for a good way to explain himself.

During the course of their very enjoyable activities, Jim had notices that Spock was quite obviously inexperienced. He'd assumed, mostly, that it was because he'd never been with another _man_. But now he was starting to wonder. "Hey, Spock?" he asked carefully. "That wasn't… I mean, you've had sex _before_, right?"

Silence.

…Oh _**shit**_**.**

"Humans are prone to frivolous sexual encounters," Spock informed him quietly, not meeting his eye. "Vulcans, however, are not. In Vulcan society, sex is equivalent to marriage. You are married to the one whom you have sex with. You have sex with the one to whom you are married. There is no adultery, and no casual intercourse. Most Vulcans take a spouse at a certain stage in their life cycle, and remain with them until death."

Jim felt his mouth go completely dry. "So… we're Vulcan-married now?" he asked hesitantly, inwardly cursing himself for not looking into this sooner. Why didn't he find out about this shit _before_? Oh damn. He should have seen this coming. No culture that was all about suppressing its emotions was going to have his attitude towards sex.

"No," Spock immediately assured him, and he felt the beginnings of his panic attack began to fade. He wasn't ready for marriage. Nope, not by a _long_ shot. "By Vulcan standards I would be considered too young for such a thing. This is entirely human," he admitted.

"Wait," Jim asked, concerned. "So I'm a Vulcan-_pedophile?_" he asked, feeling a little nauseated.

Spock gave the slightest shakes of his head.

"No, Jim, you are not," he replied, resting one of his hands along his arm. "Vulcan sexual maturation is a complicated process. I am – as demonstrated – fully adult, but there are still… factors that have yet to come into play," he explained. Then he added, "and indeed, given my mixed heritage, they may never be an issue."

Jim gave him a long look, and admirably managed to avoid letting his sex drive distract him as he did. But _damn_, he wouldn't mind a round two…

No. Bad Jim.

Alright. He had to think about what Spock was _saying_. "Okay, so basically… you're freaked out because we're going about this all human-style?" he clarified. _Heh. Human-style. We should invent that position._

Damn, he was bad at this not-thinking-about-sex business. Especially when he was lying very close to a very naked half-Vulcan.

Spock's fingers flexed in what Jim recognized as a gesture of agitation. "In part," he agreed. Then he looked at him, and his expression was very serious – and very pointedly fixed on his face. "There is a _reason_ Vulcans do not engage in frivolous sexual activities," he informed him. "We can be… harmful, if we lose focus." His voice took on an edge when he spoke, and Jim wasn't quite sure what to identify it as. But his mind was producing a stray thought for his consideration.

…_He is a disgusting creature, wretched in his impulses_…

Impulsively, he reached out, pulling Spock towards himself and re-wrapping him in his embrace. He felt muscles tense and stiffen beneath his touch, but ignored that, resting Spock's back against his chest and folding their arms together. Jim lay his head upon his shoulder. "No one was harmed," he breathed into his ear. "And you can't tell me you didn't lose _focus_ there. Quite a few times."

There was a moment, and he wondered, briefly, if his instincts had been wrong. But then Spock relaxed against him, some of the tension flowing from his form, and he let out an internal sigh of relief.

"It may not always be the same," Spock admitted. "There were moments…" he swallowed, and Jim only noticed because he was so close.

"Tell me," he beseeched, genuinely curious. His invitation was followed by a hesitant moment. But he waited this out.

"…It is an aggressive feeling," Spock admitted eventually. "As difficult to contain as anger. I do not know what would happen if I truly lost control of it. I do not know what I would do, but I know you would be incapable of preventing me from doing it."

Ordinarily, that kind of assertion might have sounded like potentially good times to Jim. But the subtle traces of what he was started to think was _fear _were definitely killing that. He didn't enjoy the fact that their encounter was, in some way, frightening to Spock. It made him feel like he'd taken advantage of the situation.

"There are stories," Spock continued. "Of sexual encounters between Vulcans which have gone… badly. We do not speak of them. But we are made aware of what may happen, as a warning." Then, for good measure, he added: "Some of us are capable of becoming extremely dangerous during intercourse. I may be one such individual."

Jim released a soft breath, turning his cheek and planting a kiss upon the soft skin behind Spock's ear. This was so… _different_ for him. It had no reason to be, but, there it was. He found himself extremely invested in Spock. It would be a messy split-up between them, he could tell – so it was better to put it off for as long as possible. "There are some humans like that, too, you know," he said. "Personally, I don't mind throwing a little kink into my love life. But I don't think you'd do anything terrible to me."

He shifted his hands, resting one so that it was lying flat against Spock's side, where he'd felt a soft, rhythmic flutter like a heartbeat during their 'activities'. "I trust you," he added, and not without some difficulty.

Spock shivered deliciously. But then he stiffened, and pulled away, and Jim keenly felt the loss of his warmth. "I," he replied, "do not."

He was hoping that Spock meant he didn't trust _himself_, and not that he didn't trust _Jim_, because the latter cut a little too deep for his ability to handle just then. He fought to keep from looking stricken. It wasn't a very successful effort, but fortunately, Spock wasn't looking at him. _Every impulse he has,_ Jim considered, _scares the hell out of him._ And then, of course, that fear only made it worse. He supposed that when you lived a life where you controlled every little thing, losing control of _any_ little thing seemed that much more jarring by comparison. On top of that, lust rarely came across as a 'little' thing.

"We could ask the other you," he suggested.

Finally, Spock looked at him again. His eyes had widened. "…You are suggesting that we inquire after my… sexual nature?" he asked, and his tone sounded very Vulcan, and in a 'you-are-absolutely-insane' kind of way. That special edge that Vulcans got which somehow managed to convey affront and disdain without any technical emotion sneaking into their voice. Jim had had occasion to notice it many times when they were escorting the surviving High Council back to Earth.

"Well, he'd probably _know,_" he pointed out reasonably. Personally Jim didn't see any issue with his solution. If he'd had an old man version of himself readily available for consultation, he would have already started compiling a notebook of tips. "Although, I gotta say, you seem to be over-thinking this."

Spock gave him a _look_. It was undermined by his nakedness. But surprisingly, not by much. "Vulcans do not discuss such things," he said.

_How ironically illogical,_ Jim thought. Then he shrugged. "Okay. _I'll_ ask him." He was pretty sure he'd get an answer, too. The old man was obviously more rule-bending-prone than his younger self.

Almost immediately, Spock stiffened. "I would request that you do not discuss the subject of sexual practices with my alternate self."

He was doing that tense, holding-back-some-kind-of-bad-reaction stance of his, and Jim frowned, trying to puzzle out where he was screwing this whole encounter up. He'd tried to be reassuring, he'd professed his trust – never lightly given – and attempted to find a solution to the source of Spock's distress… and then, in turn, he'd offered to have an awkward conversation on his behalf. Now he was at a loss. "Uh, _why not?_" he asked, starting to get a little annoyed.

Spock didn't reply. Moving, Jim reached out, resting a hand lightly on his shoulder…

_Wham_.

In a dizzying, unexpected move, Jim found himself lifted up and pinned against the nearest wall. He reeled, startled at being grabbed and moved so swiftly, at unexpectedly being held so close and so tight by Spock, who had just recently been in the process of withdrawing. It was jarring. But it wasn't painful, as he did not impact against the surface with any bruising force.

"I do not wish you to discuss sexual practices with anyone other than myself," Spock informed him, and even though the _words_ sounded like himself, the tone was much rougher than usual.

"Okaaay," Jim replied with forced lightness. "I think I'm starting to see where you're getting the idea that you might be a little over the top…"

The lightest of tremors traveled up Spock's arms from where he held him. A shudder. The proximity of their unclothed bodies was definitely starting to have an effect on the both of them. "You are not capable of the kind of monogamy a relationship with a Vulcan would require. I cannot impose this upon you," Spock whispered, despite the conflicting signals his body was sending out.

An odd mixture of ice and fire settled into Jim's chest. He locked eyes with Spock for a moment. Then, he glared. Insulted. Pissed off.

For a tense moment, that was all he did. After a time, in a very low, quiet voice, he said simply: "Let go of me."

There was a pause.

Then, stiffly, Spock stepped back.

Jim didn't look at him as he resolutely marched into the bathroom. With a detached efficiency, he cleaned himself up, and then dressed, and then walked back out. His eyes flickered only briefly in Spock's direction before he left the room. Once the door had hissed shut behind him, he moved to the right, and leaned heavily against the wall.

Oh, he was so _fucking mad_ right now. It wasn't even funny. It was that kind of anger that just couldn't take shape, couldn't make him yell or lash out because that just simply wouldn't be enough of an expression. He'd seen Spock quake with rage a few times. Now it was his turn.

The guy had looked into his mind. He'd _seen_ who Jim was, even if he hadn't exactly seen _all_ of it. For him to do that and then turn around say that… _"You are not capable of the monogamy a relationship with a Vulcan would require."_

So, what? He didn't think Jim was taking this seriously? He'd been doing nothing _but_ take it seriously since this whole mess started. And the worst of it was, he wasn't even entirely sure why the comment offended him so damn much. He wasn't exactly known for his committed, long-term relationships. It should have been a fair statement.

Instead it felt like he'd had some secret fear confirmed.

Not to mention, it was never nice for someone to imply that you'd cheat on them. Jim tended to have a _lot_ of relationships, but they were _successive,_ dammit. Well – there had been a time or two, but everyone had been completely aware of it, and totally cool with everything that had gone down. He'd never in a million years expect that kind of thing from Spock, though.

_Dark, like the vastness of space. Like a room in his mind that he still couldn't quite see into…_

Swallowing, hard, he folded his arms across his chest as scowling at a speck of air. That mind-meld was not an experience he was going to forget any time soon.

He still hadn't calmed down when he heard the quiet _whoosh_ of the door opening again, and knew Spock was standing behind him.

"You're an _ass,_" Jim informed him, not turning around.

"…Indeed."

There was a pause.

"Did I harm you?" Spock asked at length.

_Yes,_ Jim thought. "Tch, _no_," he said aloud. The he relented within himself, and finally turned, regarding his first officer warily.

Spock was standing rigid and straight, one hand stiff at his side. The other was extended loosely towards Jim. In it, he held that massively unwelcome phaser of his. Jim glanced up at his face, at his neutral, forcibly reserved expression. Then he looked back at the weapon. The message was clear – go back to arming yourself against me. I'm dangerous. I don't trust who I am around you. Only now Jim knew that Spock's mistrust had little to do with his 'temper'.

He took the phaser, sweeping it almost violently out of his first officer's grasp, and then marched back into their quarters. Purposefully, he slammed it down on the desk, and then opened one of the drawers and riffled through the neatly sorted, standard contents until he found a suitable tool. Then, with methodical intensity, he began to dismantle it.

"What are you doing?" Spock asked, following him in, but lingering back.

Jim didn't answer him. He just kept moving, taking apart the casing, and then the sensitive, internal power source. The most dangerous parts he sorted into one pile. The rest, into another. It was the impressive work of only several minutes. Then he marched over to the waster receptacle, and without preamble dropped the dismantled pieces into their appropriate chutes.

Looked like he owed his employers a phaser.

"Jim…"

He turned around, still utterly steamed. "A Starfleet officer needs to know how to deal with fear," he said, practically throwing the words at Spock.

Annoyance, or maybe anger, briefly passed behind Spock's eyes.

"There is a difference between handling fear and endangering yourself needlessly," he said, straightening his shoulders.

Jim met his gaze fiercely. "I'm not talking about _my_ fear," he replied. Then he looked away, and stalked past him. "I've got things to do today. The ship's repairs should be finished this evening. You…" he trailed off, his throat going dry and hard, and swallowed. "You do what you want." Then he left – but he made a point of resettling his bag inside the door before he did. So Spock would know he was leaving it there... and meant to come back.

Hopefully.

He could have done most of his work for that day from the computer terminal in their quarters, but obviously, there were plenty of reasons not to. Besides, some things would be easier to do with access to a larger database, like the one in the computer library. At the very least it would be faster.

Something of Jim's bad mood must have been following him, though, because a small bubble of avoidance sprung up around him as he made his way to the library building, and when he found a console, the immediate area around it cleared out fairly swiftly. He tried to focus his attention on his work. There was a shitload of paperwork to fill out today before he could retake command of his ship, and he was hoping to implement his new 'annoying-five-year-old' scheme on as much of it as he could, which would require a certain level of focus. But it was difficult.

Without company, and with nothing but quiet things to occupy his mind, his attention drifted where it wanted, no matter his own say in the matter.

Spock, his - no, the _younger_ Spock, saw him in such a strange way. He was almost a little afraid of it, and couldn't help but wonder if he'd misrepresented himself in some sense, although he didn't really see _how_. It wasn't like the absolute confidence which the elder Spock felt for him – which would have been kind of creepy, now that he thought about it. His own… dammit, the _younger Spock_ didn't have any alternate timeline relationships to base such a thing off of. But he wanted him. Their wants mirrored each other.

The tricky thing, of course, was that with Vulcans, _want_ didn't mean nearly as much as it did with humans. The generally agreed-upon eternal quest of the human race was to achieve happiness. Happiness was an emotion. Obviously, the generally agreed-upon eternal quest of the Vulcan race was going to be a little different. So even if their wants were equal, their approaches would not be.

It was giving him a headache. And it made his chest hurt. _C'mon, Spock, I can't keep making all the first moves here,_ he thought angrily. They were starting to develop an unfortunate habit of Jim reaching out, Spock pushing away, and Jim reaching out some more. It was getting exhausting, excellent sex and unforgettable psychic experiences notwithstanding. He'd never had to put this much effort into a relationship before, and it hadn't even been a _week_.

Which either said something really bad about his previous relationships, or something really convoluted about this one.

He scowled at his computer screen. Not to mention it was apparently an annoyingly complicated process to get the stupid replicators upgraded so they could make cranberries. It might be faster to just write Scotty again and see if _he_ could do it.

Stupid cranberries.

He grumbled to himself for the entirety of the two hours it took him to fill out the paperwork for the upgrade and put it through. It would probably take less time to actually do the _job_ itself.

By the time noon had rolled around, however, he'd run out of the worst of his steam. Maybe he was being too hard on Spock. It _had_ been the guy's first time, after all – as strange as it was to think about it. Well, strange for Jim, anyway. Apparently he and Uhura hadn't gotten that far, despite the fact that they'd been dating for months. At least.

It _did_ give him new insight into that particular split up, however. Now that he was thinking about it, the few times he'd seen them together, Spock had always just kind of… stood there. Not _disinterested,_ but not looking like he was putting a lot of effort into the proceedings, either. He'd just assumed it was his Vulcan nature, combined with the fact that, well, Jim was watching.

Spock had most certainly not been that passive when Jim had had his hands on him.

But _then again,_ Spock had blamed their mutual… 'willingness' for the encounter on the mind-meld. So perhaps he'd wanted to be more passionate with Uhura, but hadn't been given enough of a push to break through his Vulcan sensibilities about it.

And now he was convinced that, at any given moment, he could turn into some kind of sex-crazed deviant who would have his wicked way with Jim. Which, from _Jim's_ perspective, sounded like potentially kinky fun. But Spock was clearly thinking more along the lines of brutal rape, regardless of the fact that 'Spock the Rapist' would sound like nonsensical garbage to anyone even remotely familiar with him. Still, he _knew_ that Spock was scared of it.

Was it too convoluted to think that Spock should trust himself because Jim trusted him? It was difficult, because part of the reason why _Jim_ trusted _himself_ was because the _other _Spock had trusted him so much.

He rubbed at his temples, and decided to just stop thinking about it. It didn't really matter. The ball was, more or less, in Spock's court now. He had to decide what he was going to do about this amorous, reckless, playboy of a human he'd hooked, because even Jim knew that any kind of relationship was a two-way street.

For his own part, Jim still wasn't clear on the details, but he was certain that he wanted to be with Spock. Whenever that would change, he couldn't say.

His thoughts skittered away from exploring that sentiment too deeply.

The little distractions of his mind slowed down his progress, so he remained fixed in front of his screen through the lunch hour. It didn't really matter. He didn't have any appetite. His assessment of the work he was presented with seemed to show few 'additions' for him to find, but there could have been a number of reasons for that. His leading theories were that either he had a long ways to go with really understanding the process – which was true – or that, since this wasn't a _mission_, Starfleet wasn't as dead-set on hassling him. It was kind of hard to completely mess up your captaincy in space dock, after all.

Although, completely alienating your first officer by sleeping with him was probably a fine start.

By the time mid-afternoon had rolled around, Jim had finally completed everything he needed to before he headed back to the ship. Of course, there'd be more work waiting for him there, but he wouldn't be expected back until the next morning. Then he'd supervise the final check to make sure everything was in working order, along with Scotty and Spock, and provided there were no last-minute disasters, shore leave would be officially over. They could return to the business of space exploration.

Leaning back in his chair, Jim stretched himself out. He gave the slightest start of surprise when a pair of hands landed on his shoulders.

"Gotcha," a familiar, feminine voice said into his ear.

Jim scrambled from his seat, smacking his arm into the desk and sprawling on the floor in momentary gracelessness.

"_Shit,_" he swore emphatically, as Marlena grinned down at him. He was cornered.

The next ten minutes proved to be the worst ten minutes of Jim's vacation so far. Which was saying something. But he had a high threshold for physical pain, and a low one for crazy-stalker ex girlfriends. Raising his hands in the gesture which humans typically extended towards wild animals that could strike at any moment, he backed up as far as the little computer alcove would allow, attempting to at least keep Marlena at arms' length.

"Are you really so tired of me, Jim?" she purred, leaning over the back of the chair he'd just vacated.

"Yes," he answered readily.

It earned him a pout. "Oh, come on now," she said, extending one hand to lay a well-manicured finger against his chest. "I'm not asking for the moon, you know. Just another chance." Her coy lips curved into a sleek grin. "I know you don't like me today – but how about you let me change your mind?"

Jim _really_ wasn't in the mood. Not for her antics, and not for her offers. But his options were limited – he could just go with it and try to barrel past her, to likely mixed results, or stand there and try to discourage her instead. Optimistically, she could get bored and give up. He decided to roll with the second option and keep his fingers crossed.

So, he stood there, and listened to her make increasingly frustrated passes at him. Minute after agonizing minute.

Some people had gathered to watch.

Finally, after a time, Marlena's temper snapped. "What is _wrong_ with you?" she ground out.

"I don't like you!" Jim replied, as he had been saying with absolutely zero subtlety for quite some time. Someone watching them snickered.

"You _always_ say that," Marlena replied. "And I _always_ get you back eventually. Why fight the inevitable?"

She had a point. Given their past history, he wouldn't ordinarily be _this_ resistant. Hell, he might have even hooked up with her for a fling, just because he knew he'd be going back to his ship afterwards and could avoid the subsequent madness.

"Your assessment of the situation does not take into account the inherent mutability of human nature."

Jim's head snapped to a point directly to his right, a wave of relief and tension rolling over him at the familiar, neutral tones.

"Spock!" he exclaimed gratefully.

"_You_," Marlena said at the same time, with considerably less positive emotion.

Seeing an opening, Jim attempted to make a mad break for his first officer. Clearly in a very catty mood, Marlena caught his arm as he passed, and he winced as her nails raked his skin.

"Ouch. Dammit," he said, jerking himself clear of her reach. Then he stilled as Spock took a step towards him and grasped his elbow, his gaze flicking down to the injury, before darting over to Marlena.

A person could have cut the tension with a knife. Except, in all likelihood, the knife would have broken.

"I will be forced to report your mental instability to your instructors," Spock said evenly, letting go of Jim's arm as he moved to stand alongside him.

Marlena shifted, looking distinctly uncomfortable. "It's just a misunderstanding," she insisted. "You're not familiar enough with human courtship rituals."

Spock raised an eyebrow at her. "I am adept at recognizing behavioral issues," he replied evenly, although somehow, his demeanor managed to give off the impression that Marlena was being hopelessly obtuse.

Really, _really_ hopelessly obtuse.

When realization hit her, Jim could almost swear it was almost like an actual light went off in her head. She blinked, her feline eyes darting between the two of them. The finger which she'd planted on his chest earlier darted up, pointing first at Spock, and then at himself. "What, _you_ and _him?_" she demanded incredulously.

Jim found that he was also watching his first officer expectantly. _You and me?_ his thoughts echoed, albeit with a completely different tone.

Spock straightened, folding his hands behind his back and giving Marlena an expression which, essentially, amounted to 'want to make something of it?' His face and manner were oddly well-suited to the portrayal. "I believe the appropriate cultural response at this point would be for me to instruct you to 'step off'. Is that correct, Jim?" Just the faintest hint of doubt crept in under his tone at the question. The implication was clear – he was asking for his permission to confirm that kind of relationship between them.

With a smile, Jim borrowed one of Spock's own gestures, and inclined his head. "Yeah, you got it right," he replied. Spock's fingers twitched, briefly, in his direction.

He thought he knew what that meant now.

For a moment, Marlena wavered between looking shocked, offended, or… well, actually a little frightened. Her gaze darted over to Spock, and then, with a disgruntled huff, she turned on her heel and stalked away.

Jim watched her go, wide-eyed. When it became apparent that she actually _was_ leaving, he looked over at his first officer.

"How did you _do_ that?" he asked.

Spock's response was one of his little half-shrugs. "It would seem that I intimidate her," he said, considering it. Then he turned to give Jim his full regard, and for an instant, Jim thought he could see what had scared Marlena off so well. There was a certain unreadable intensity to his gaze which impacted him on an instinctive level.

Of course, with Jim, the reaction to it was completely different. You couldn't have paid him to walk away from that.

"…So…" he said, hesitantly. "Are you sure you should have implied so much? It's a little scandalous for a captain and a member of his crew to fraternize, isn't it? Marlena's not going to keep quiet." It was unlikely that any of their lingering, curious spectators would, either.

With a tilt of his head, Spock seemed to think about this. "There is no regulation against it," he determined. "Additionally, apart from yourself, I am the highest ranking member of the crew. If you are to fraternize with anyone, then I would be the most… _logical_ candidate."

For a minute, Jim forgot how to breathe.

But then he remembered again.

"Did you complete your tasks?" Spock asked, seemingly to abruptly switch gears. It took Jim's brain a moment to catch up with it, but once it did, he nodded, a little surprised at the question. His response earned him a nod. "In that case, I believe we are overdue for a conversation," his first officer elaborated, turning to head towards the library's exit.

After only a brief hesitation, Jim followed.

---

**Author's Note:** Vulcans = total prudes. Sarek probably just gave Spock a pamphlet with he was thirteen: "_Pon Farr and You"._

Also, sorry if I scared anybody with that emotional-transfer thing. I just meant to explain why they'd suddenly lost their inhibitions, although the unintended reader tension was kind of fun, too – but only 'cause I'm evil. Of course, there was destined to be morning-after angst (even though it's still technically the same day) given that they both still have _issues_ to resolve.

Oh, and I'm sorry of Spock's sexual inexperience came off as a little tacky, but the more I thought about it, the more sense it made to me.


	18. Chapter 18

Spock walked, and Jim followed just slightly behind him, trying not to broadcast how nervous he was. His gaze repeatedly darted over to his first officer, his mind turning over what the contents of this 'conversation' would be, and wondering where exactly they were headed. The latter question was answered first – it seemed to be the nearest relatively quiet corner of outdoor space that they came across. A little grassy area between two of the complex's buildings, just a stone's throw from the main computer library.

When Spock stopped, Jim stopped, and found his gaze drifting down to the almost too-green grass, flowerless and slightly artificial-looking. A soft breeze had picked up, bending the blades and winding around their standing forms.

"I have been considering our encounter for the past several hours," Spock said.

Jim looked over at him. He grinned, but it was a nervous gesture. "I'll take that as a compliment," he said. It earned him a bland look.

"Jim… would I be correct in assuming that you would be interested in…" here Spock trailed off, his eyes avoiding his, and a slightly uncomfortable shift marring his usually straight stance. Jim gave him a moment to gather his thoughts. After a while, it became apparent that the task was daunting his first officer.

"I'm interested in you," he provided helpfully. Now there was an understatement.

"I am aware of that," Spock replied. Then he straightened himself a little, his posture returning to its normal, perfect lines, adopting a very business-like stance. "It would also be truthful to say that _I_ am interested in _you_. But circumstances have progressed at a rate and in a manner which is decidedly extreme for my nature."

Jim considered him, and how only Spock would have a discussion about their romantic relationship in the same tone of voice he usually reserved for transmissions with Starfleet Command. "You're saying that we're going too fast?" he clarified. And while he could see his point, Jim found that he couldn't quite relate to it. Probably because most of his hook-ups only took about an evening to jump-start. But then, this whole experience was very atypical for him, too. So they at least had that in common.

"Correct," Spock agreed. "My erratic behavior has misrepresented my nature. I am still attempting to reconcile myself to many things… and you were accurate in assessing that fear was affecting my judgment."

Opening his mouth, Jim made to reply, but he was halted by a gesture from Spock's hand. "Let me speak," he asked. It felt like Jim's nerves were attempting to construct some kind of warp drive engine in his gut, and thereby escape this discussion. But, he stayed quiet. "I do not believe it would be prudent to continue a physical relationship between the two of us at this time. Regardless of your apparent trust in my restraint, the potential dangers should I lose control remain a source of concern for me. Additionally, it is not my inclination to engage in sexual contact with a casual mindset."

Jim was confused. Back in the library, he'd been pretty certain that Spock had just established his willingness to be in a relationship with him. But now it looked like he was attempting to break it off.

His nerves felt like they were shooting for Warp Three.

"However," Spock continued, and Jim felt a surge of hope. "It is not my desire to terminate our interactions. I find you engaging and intelligent company, physically stimulating and mentally compatible. I realize that there are several cultural differences which must be reconciled. But if you are agreeable to it, then I request that we attempt a… 'courtship' between us."

Spock met his eyes, at this, and it seemed to be the end of his speech.

Jim's mind ran over the statements he'd been presented with. He was having a little trouble grasping the concept which his first officer was trying to get across. "So…" he began, slowly. "You don't want to have sex with me anymore. But you want us to _court_ one another?"

Holy shit. He felt like he'd just gotten unceremoniously sucked into a Jane Austen novel. And he'd never even _read_ a Jane Austen novel. He only vaguely knew that people did things like 'courting' in them. Perhaps dragons and castles were also involved. He honestly couldn't say.

It was a fair bet that his mind was skittering around this topic in something of a disjointed panic, now.

"On Vulcan, most children are placed in arranged pairs for later unions," Spock informed him, still in his 'business' tones. "However, there are occasionally instances where such pairs become, for one reason or another, no longer suitable. My own betrothed died on Vulcan," he explained.

"Sorry," Jim said automatically. Spock inclined his head.

"What is cannot be changed," he said simply. "The point is that there are instances where adult Vulcans have been forced to seek out their own unions. Under such circumstances, it is considered customary for the individuals involved to engage in extended periods of social interaction, until such a time as they are certain that a joining between them would be prosperous."

Jim was gaping. He couldn't really help it.

"I believe humans term this courtship," Spock concluded, looking at him expectantly.

"…I don't get it."

He could have sworn that the corners of Spock's lips twitched upwards. Just a little. "It is simple, Jim," he said. "We would continue as we had been before our _encounter_ this morning, familiarizing ourselves with one another in a civilized fashion." Then he added: "during this period of time, I would also attempt to refine my meditation techniques, as I already intended to in order to maintain my competency as a first officer, and a Vulcan."

Closing his mouth, Jim swallowed. "No sex?" he said, just to be sure that he was getting this right.

"No sex," Spock confirmed.

"…But I _like_ sex." Jim was having troubles seeing how this was going to work. A romantic relationship without sex? Wasn't that kind of like having dinner without food? If they were going to just… hang out, and stuff, didn't that just make them _friends?_

Spock shifted, showing the vaguest hints of agitation, or perhaps nervousness. "I am aware of your predisposition," he said. "I will, therefore, understand if you cannot accept my offer. Such an arrangement would necessitate fidelity on both our parts. I would not think less of you if you rejected it."

"So…" Jim said, running a hand across the back of his head. He began to pace a few steps. Thinking. "I wouldn't be able to have sex with _you._"

Spock gave him a confirming nod.

"And I wouldn't be able to have sex with anyone _else_ either."

Another nod.

He paused, letting out a breath of air. "So you don't want to be my lover, but you also don't want me to be anyone else's lover?"

"That is not correct," Spock replied, and Jim felt somewhat relieved. He was so confused. "I find the idea of engaging in a romantic relationship with you to be very promising. What I am proposing is a period of non-sexual interactions, to last until such a time that you and I feel that we could spend the rest of our lives together. At which point, we would then engage in sexual relations once more."

Jim stopped. Stunned. "You mean… like eventually getting _married?_" he asked.

Spock raised his eyebrows slightly. "It should not be a foreign concept to you," he pointed out gently. "Humans are known to seek out such relationships."

Humans, yes. James T. Kirk? No. He shifted uncomfortably, feeling his heart hammer in his chest. "I'm not ready for that kind of thing, Spock," he said.

"I am aware of this," Spock replied. "That is what the period of interaction would be used to establish."

He was… _serious, _Jim realized. Completely and utterly serious. His first officer's steady, dark gaze met his own evenly, honestly. It wasn't just that he was serious about their friendship, or about their feelings, or any of the things which Jim himself had been serious about. He honestly thought that if they did this thing, if they spent enough time together, eventually, they could spend the rest of their lives together.

Historically, this was the part where he ran screaming for the hills.

But he was still standing there.

His brain had stopped working, and his nerves had now achieved Warp Eight, so at any given moment his torso might explode.

But he was _still standing there._

Spock seemed to have noticed that he was frozen in place. "I am sorry, Jim. That is all I am able to offer you," he said, and there was almost a note of defeat to his voice, as if he knew the answer he was going to get. Because _everybody_ knew that Jim Kirk was an eternal playboy, that his idea of a 'long-term' relationship was one which lasted an entire week, and that even when he wasn't in the midst of one of his wild flings, he'd never consider something as dry as a Vulcan 'courtship'. This was what Spock had meant when he said that Jim didn't have the capacity for his level of monogamy. Because with him, it would either be everything – everything in a sense which Jim had never considered possible for himself – or nothing. Plus, a good bit of 'nothing' in the meantime, too. At least as far as sex was concerned.

"…I guess I could try," he said, very, very quietly, hearing his own words with a detached air. His face had flushed and his skin was tingling oddly.

The muscles of Spock's face momentarily slackened in shock.

Well, what the hell? It wasn't like he was in a hurry to jump anyone _else_, and when it didn't work, no one could say he hadn't given it a shot. In the meantime, he'd at the very least have Spock's companionship – so they really _would_ be back to square one, in a sense.

Only it was going to be very hard not to pounce him. It had been hard not to pounce him _before_, of course, only then Jim hadn't known what he was missing. But, he suspected that he'd have that problem no matter what at this point.

"You're absolutely positive on this whole no-sex front?" he said, in a last-ditch, desperate effort. "Because, you know, it might help you get a better grasp on your humanity."

Spock's eyes were warm, and wondering, and he took a step towards Jim. He paused for a moment. Then he rested his hand against his jaw, and leaning in, pressed their lips softly together. It was a quick, chaste, and infinitely gentle gesture, and over far too soon for Jim's taste. "I am certain," he said. "It is a matter of conduct. Anything else would be distasteful to me."

Jim let out a disappointed groan. Then he sighed.

"Well. That's your call," he conceded. "As long as you're not just making this up because you're afraid you'll get all sex-crazy on me."

"While I have been unable to completely suppress that emotion or alleviate such a concern, it is not the reason for my decision," Spock assured him. Then he reached over and grasped his wrist. Jim watched, surprised and curious, as his fingers were folded so that his index and middle finger were extended, side by side, while the rest of his hand was closed into a fist. Then Spock made a similar gesture, and touched the tips of their extended fingers together. It tingled pleasantly.

"This," he explained, "is an acceptable gesture of affection between two romantically connected individuals. You may extend it to me at any time, and I will return it."

Even considering everything, Jim found that he was oddly touched by those words, and the two simple, warm fingers resting against his own.

"In addition, given that human needs must also be taken into consideration, we may kiss, as we just did," he said.

Jim frowned a little, considering him carefully. "You're setting a hell of a lot of ground rules," he noted. "Do I get to make any?"

Spock's eyebrows rose slightly. "Of course," he replied immediately, disconnecting their touch. Jim found he missed it, as well as the warmth of his hand around his wrist. "Speak your thoughts."

Yeah, _no_. That would be bad idea. He didn't think Spock actually wanted to hear his litany of curse words regarding the sudden enforcement of abstinence in their relationship. Although it may well have increased his appreciation for Jim's level of creativity.

"Okay," Jim said instead, and his mind latched onto something _else_ that was bothering him, and had been for a while now, too. "I want you to get over whatever it is that makes you not like your other self. And talk to him. Because right now, it's weirding me out."

Up went the eyebrows. "I fail to see what relevance that has to _our_ interactions," Spock said.

Jim was only able to shake his head a little. Reaching a hand up, he clasped Spock on the shoulder. Damn. He wished he knew what was going on. Somehow, he wasn't even sure what he was _doing_ anymore. "It's simple," he told his whatever-the-hell-you-called-a-Vulcan-you-were-courting. "I'm giving up sex. You're gonna have to give up _bullshit_. I know it will be hard, but compromise always is." Then, on impulse, he leaned over and pressed his lips to Spock's own surprised mouth. Stepping back, he nodded in satisfaction – or as much satisfaction as he could get, all things considered – and turned to walk away before he made a much more substantial pass.

After a minute, Spock recovered, and asked after him. "Where are you going?"

"I have to find something to kick the crap out of," Jim called back with a wave, not turning around. He was convinced that, if he did, he'd stick his tongue down Spock's throat, and somehow he doubted that would go over well.

The gym would probably be a good idea, but given that he'd run into Marlena there yesterday, he'd also settle for a handy waste receptacle to bash around. Except that such behavior was probably unbecoming of a Starfleet captain. Dammit. A knock-down, drag-out bar brawl was probably out of the question, too, in that case. But he really needed to hit something, or do something. Maybe running – there was an idea.

He wound up tracing his steps back to their quarters for a change of clothes, and then doing a couple of laps around the complex before he finally felt like he'd spent the last of his awkward tension. Tomorrow it would be back to the ship. He wondered what it would be like to try and apply his new relationship with Spock to the day-to-day life of command.

When he'd finished his run, he found that Spock had disappeared – undoubtedly to some last-minute task or another requiring his attention. The quiet was a little unsettling. He called Bones, but didn't get an answer. He was beginning to contemplate going out and finding something to eat. The idea didn't hold much appeal without company, even as hungry as he was. So instead he went back to his research.

An hour into that, and he was spinning in his chair and wondering where Spock was.

Making his decision, Jim called up a map to find out where the botany lab was located, and then headed out again. He hadn't been anywhere near most of the science buildings since his initial orientation. They were very blue. Someone high up in the department was apparently having a love-affair with their uniform.

Well, he was no one to judge.

He had to go up three floors, peering into rooms and earning a few curious or even suspicious glances before he found Spock. He was leaning over a complicated-looking computer station, pale fingers splayed over a dark hood as he peered into a low screen, undoubtedly examining some sort of readings. A few other rather stiff, formal-looking scientists were also in the room, clearly engrossed in their projects.

Jim took a moment to lean against the doorframe, and watched as Spock quietly worked. He was all long, straight lines and direct, purposeful motions – except when you were paying close attention. Then you would notice how his fingers occasionally hovered in place before completing their chosen action, paused momentarily by the processes of his mind. Or how he'd tuck one hand behind his back, almost thoughtlessly, as if he'd picked the gesture up from watching someone else when he was younger. His eyes were his most telling feature, but when Jim couldn't see them, he realized that they were far from his _only_ telling one. Subconsciously, he'd picked up on that before.

It was lucky that Spock looked good in blue. One of the room's other occupants was a Bolian, and between his uniform, skin colour, and the décor, he was almost invisible.

Jim's quiet observation lasted for a few minutes before he was noticed. An older woman at one of the stations caught sight of him, then, and gave him an inquiring look. "Can I help you?" she asked. Several others looked in his direction at the question. Spock was not among them.

He grinned. "I'm here to steal Mr. Spock," he said, and was pleased when Spock immediately straightened and turned in his direction. The woman – probably the project's head – scowled a little.

"Mr. Spock is handling some very delicate processes at the moment," she said, in a tone which very much implied that he was a drunkard who'd just wandered in and asked to speak with the President of the Federation.

"It is alright," Spock immediately said, as Jim's expression fell slightly at the rude treatment. He'd been trying to be friendly, after all. "I will be a few moments, Jim, if you would not mind waiting?"

"No problem," Jim easily replied. Then he settled more comfortably against the doorframe, and made a show of examining his fingernails. The project head had deepened her scowl, shooting a glance between himself and Spock.

"Well, don't crowd the doorway," she said sharply, gesturing that he should move inside. Then she muttered a bit about sensitive and delicate stages and pretty-boys coming to steal her best minds, complete with the addition of a lot of swearing.

After a minute, Spock looked up. "I find that your disparaging comments towards my companion are distracting my focus. If you would kindly refrain from them?" he asked pointedly.

Jim wouldn't have said that he _glowed_ under this roundabout manner of sticking up for him, but that was only because he didn't own up to that kind of behavior. He still did it, though. Especially when the project head immediately subsided, looking mildly surprised, and shooting Spock a nervous glance before she returned to her own work. A few minutes ticked by. Several of the other workers kept sending him assessing and curious looks.

_What?_ Jim thought, wondering what was highly unusual about him. Alright, so, he didn't exactly look like a scientist-type, but he'd already established that he was just there for Spock. So… it was unusual that he was there for Spock?

…Why?

He was actually a little relieved when Spock straightened up again, making one last motion across the computer panel with his hand, and then walked over. "We may depart," he said in his lighter, more friendly tone of voice. Jim noticed two of the scientists nearest to them exchange incredulous glances.

He ignored them for the sake of beaming at Spock, and eagerly escaping the awkwardness of the room alongside him.

"Shall we dine together?" Spock asked.

"That was the plan," Jim agreed. Then he gave the half-Vulcan an assessing look. He seemed… well, not _happy_, but calm and unburdened. The tension he'd been carrying around himself for the past few days looked to have left him behind. At least for the moment. "So, uh," he said, considering. "What was with all the weird looks we were getting?"

Spock glanced back over towards him. They earned a few more such looks as they made their way through the building. "I do not know," he confessed.

It seemed that the whole thing would remain something of a mystery, but before they'd managed to make their way entirely out, a young woman dressed in the customary science blues came rushing up to them. "Commander Spock," she called tentatively, her hands clutching a datapad. "Before you go, could you sign off this process?" With obvious shyness, she extended the pad towards him.

Spock took it with his usual efficient grace, his face falling into its typical mask of indifference as he entered a sequence into the small device, and then wordlessly gave it back. His demeanor was all business, stiff and formal and quite customarily Vulcan. Jim thought the young woman might squeak when she quickly said her thank you's and then backed away, as if she'd just approached some kind of celebrity.

Then Spock turned back to Jim. His shoulders relaxed slightly, and his gaze warmed, returning to its previous and oh-so-subtle friendliness. Watching the full transition happen all at once, Jim was suddenly struck by something.

_He's completely different around me,_ he realized, shocked. It wasn't 'completely different' in the way that humans would act, not an extreme, abrupt alteration of manner and attitude. Spock just wasn't demonstrative enough for that. But it was there when you knew what to look for, and apparently the people in the science department had observed him enough to recognize it, too.

For some reason, after that little realization, he couldn't keep the smile off of his face.

Spock didn't seem to mind. Jim remembered from the meld that his first officer had a certain, very deeply touching fondness for his smile, and that only brightened it further. He'd been told it was a charming quality on him before, but for whatever reason, knowing that Spock thought as much seemed to make him actually believe it.

Under different circumstances he probably would have felt self-conscious about grinning like an idiot. But Spock just regarded him with that light in his eye, and then, almost cautiously, extended two fingers towards him.

Jim met them readily, and they paused for a moment, enjoying the strangely pleasant buzz of the contact before continuing on their way.

It did give him more cause to lament the fact that they'd probably never have sex again, though. After all, Jim was still quite convinced that things would fall apart well before 'happily ever after', to the point where he never even thought about the alternative.

As if he could read his thoughts – which he couldn't _right then_ – Spock turned to him, a considering look taking shape in his eyes. "Jim," he said, in a tone of inquiry. "I must ask you - this morning, when you hypothesized that I had grown… 'bored' with your presence – you were sincere?"

Jim started, not quite expecting the question. Then, taking a minute to think about it, he shrugged, feeling a little nervous under the careful scrutiny he was now receiving. "Sure. Kind of," he said by way of response.

Spock arched an eyebrow at him. "I find it difficult to believe that an individual could become bored with your company," he said.

Oh damn. He felt his face flush, and ducked his head, knowing that he was probably quite red now. He cleared his throat, not quite meeting Spock's gaze. How the hell did he _fluster_ him like this? It wasn't like no one on the planet had ever fed him a line or complimented him before. James T. Kirk was not supposed to _blush_, goddammit. That was so far from awesome it wasn't even funny.

"Well," he said, hoping to distract himself. "It happens anyway."

He didn't know quite what to make of the look on Spock's face at that, although for some reason he felt momentarily like a poker player who'd just tipped his hand. It was as if his first officer had suddenly noticed something he'd missed seeing before, and seeing it now had changed the look of an entire picture. The uncomfortable part was that the picture appeared to be Jim – and Jim had _no idea_ what he'd apparently just given away about himself. He re-ran their conversation through his head again, but he still couldn't figure it out.

"…What?" he finally asked, shifting a little under Spock's gaze. But his first officer just gave a little, enigmatic tilt of his head, and looked away again.

"Do you have any dining preferences? It will likely be our last evening with access to non-replicated food," he said, neatly changing the subject, much to Jim's mingled relief and annoyance. He decided to momentarily abandon his attempts at deciphering Spock, and instead led them in the direction of one of his preferred restaurants, which was actually a few blocks from the Starfleet buildings and headquarters. An easy quiet settled between them as they walked, and Jim found himself playing subconscious referee between Spock and the street's human traffic, just as he had done at the start of their vacation.

When they got to the restaurant the hostess recognized Jim, and babbled friendly, congratulatory remarks about his exploits as she led them to a quiet booth towards the back. Even as cheerful and harmless as she was, Jim was glad when she left them to it, and the universe shrank itself down to be two-person sized again.

They chatted through the meal, Spock discussing his botany project again, and Jim voicing his relief to be getting back to duty.

"I think this vacation has been more hectic than an average mission," he joked.

"Statistically speaking, you are correct," Spock informed him, that playful, wonderful glint in his steady gaze again, which let Jim know he was enjoying himself. He decided that he very much liked that look. It sent a warmth through him, and not one which was entirely innocent in nature, either.

As they sat across from one another, it occurred to Jim that he could probably get Spock into bed with him again. All he would have to do would be to use his emotions against him. With the right set-up, he could cause the dam to break, Spock would lose control, and they'd probably be going at it in no time.

In which case, Jim would qualify for the universe's biggest asshole. It would be an act on par with drugging a person or getting them drunk in order to trick them into bed. He couldn't do that.

But he really would like to have sex with Spock again.

Considering, Jim leaned against the table a little, and thought. Manipulating the guy's emotions would be the simplest, and most evil way of accomplishing that, and he threw it out the window. The other option would be to go for his mind. Spock had _decided_ that they shouldn't repeat the events of that morning. He hadn't actually disliked their activities, or doing such activities with Jim. He was just being all Vulcan about it. So. Vulcans were logical people. It stood to reason that if Jim could find the right argument, he could convince Spock's _mind_ that having further sex would be a good idea.

He decided to take it as a personal challenge to come up with as many logical arguments in favor of it as he could. His starting point would be 'sex = good times'. It would probably take a while to flesh that out a little so as to suit Spock's more complicated standards.

"May I inquire as to your thoughts, Jim?" Spock asked, and Jim realized that he'd been staring at him with intense silence for the past few minutes.

He thought about this.

"I'm concocting a scheme to talk you into bed with me again," he said at last, wondering what the reaction would be.

Spock raised his eyebrows.

"You would be better served by focusing your considerations on more productive tasks," he said. "As I explained, I am not prepared to offer you that variety of relationship at this time."

Jim winked. "I know," he said. "But you can't blame me for trying. Besides, you're a logical person, Spock," he continued, lacing his fingers together. He liked the way Spock's gaze flicked towards them, and then away again, as if he were doing something lewd. "If I can find a good argument, surely you'd want to hear it out?"

"I have no desire to further compromise my integrity," Spock insisted.

"Then," Jim said, "I'll keep that in mind when I'm coming up with my arguments."

He was a little confused when his first officer stiffened slightly, and seemed to pull away. Drawing out of their engaging banter. "Jim," he said. "If you have only agreed to our interactions because you believe they will offer you the opportunity to change my decision, then I must disillusion you. My conclusions have been made."

Frowning a little, Jim unlocked his hands, and leaned back against the booth seat. "Relax, Spock," he said. "I want to have sex with you. A lot of it. But if I can't, well… I'll take you how I can get you."

The air between them seemed to still as those last few words slipped past his lips. Jim hadn't really been thinking about them when he spoke. It was an idea that had been banging around in his skull, unspoken, for the past few days. It was the reason why he'd initially tried to kill his attraction to his first officer. He wanted _Spock_, in every sense. Or any sense.

That had never happened to him before. Actually saying as much out loud seemed to put it into a strange kind of perspective for him, and he couldn't help but wonder where this really _was_ going to lead.

After a long, silent moment, Spock tilted his head to one side.

"In that case," he said, and his voice was low and heated, and sent a shiver through Jim, "I will look forward to pitting my logic against yours."

---

**Author's Note**: Spock is picking out china patterns, and Jim has his evil plan for nookie. Oh dear.


	19. Chapter 19

"It's good exercise."

"There are alternate forms of physical exertion which do not carry the same social connotations."

"You said yourself that you're inexperienced. We could think of it as practice!"

"I see no reason why such 'practice' could not be withheld until a more respectable stage in our relationship."

"It relieves stress and tension. So it might help with your meditation."

"Given the increased number of emotions which such an activity would force me to process, that seems unlikely."

"Well, you said you wanted to familiarize yourself with Earth, right? And humans are from Earth. And humans have sex. So, _logically-"_

"Good evening, Doctor."

Jim paused in his arguments as they entered their quarters. He looked away from Spock to find Bones sitting in one of their chairs, a datapad in one hand and a vaguely nauseated expression on his face.

"Damn," he said. "I knew this was a bad idea. I'll come back later and leave you two to your – _discussion."_

Spock raised a hand, stalling him as he made to get out of his seat. "That is quite alright, Doctor," he said. "I had intended to request the use of your quarters for another night. Your presence here is convenient."

At this particular little revelation, Jim looked over at him in surprise. "What?" he asked. This was news to him.

Bones shifted uncomfortably. Spock spared him a glance, and then inclined his head towards Jim, dropping his tone a little. "You have not succeeded in your self-proclaimed goal of altering my decision. Therefore, it would be logical for me to remove myself from the temptation of your close proximity at night."

Jim processed this information. Then he grinned. "You find me 'tempting'?" he asked, deciding to take the high road. Well, it would have been too easy if he'd managed to succeed _that_ quickly, although he didn't think Spock was giving either of them enough credit. Not if he thought that they couldn't sleep in the same room without going at it. Although, he supposed, it would make it _easier_ if the object of his attraction wasn't lying a few feet away.

There was a pause. Then Spock looked him dead in the eye and said: "Exceedingly so."

Jim felt a sharp thrill of excitement ran through him in response.

"Goddammit, I'm standing. Right. Here. And I think I'm gonna throw up!" Bones chimed in.

"The bathroom is located through the door to your left," Spock supplied helpfully. It earned him a glare. After a moment, the first officer raised his eyebrows marginally, and straightened when Bones made no move to leave. "If you have recovered from your bout of inexplicable nausea, Doctor, may I ask – do you object to spending another night here?"

Bones grumbled something to the general effect of 'no, I don't care' and then slumped back into his seat, shaking his head at the two of them. Jim's attention was mostly still fixated on Spock.

"You know, speaking strictly from a perspective of convenience, it would save you a trip across the complex if we just-"

"I will see the walk as an opportunity for exercise," Spock replied smoothly. Then he extended his fingers.

Disappointed, Jim sighed, but he completed the gesture anyway. He'd have tried for a kiss, but he didn't trust himself not to press it too far right then. His nerves were buzzing, and he knew if their lips met, it would be anything but chaste. He was almost hoping that Spock would make the move. But he didn't.

"You're _sure?_" he quadruple-checked. He got a little twitch of a smile.

"I am," Spock confirmed. Then he gathered up his things, and with only one brief look, made his way out of the room. Jim followed him to the doorway. He leaned out, watching his first officer head into the corridor.

"Alright!" he called after him. "But if we're not having sex then you have to call your future-self and ask him if you're into kinky shit!"

…Maybe shouting that out just then hadn't been the best idea.

Suddenly regretting his impulsiveness, he slipped back inside before he could see Spock's reaction. When he turned around, Bones was sitting there, looking at him slack-jawed. There was an awkward pause.

"…_What_ _in the hell is_ _wrong with you?_ My god, man! I'm your _friend._ Why have you made it your life's mission to mentally scar me beyond all recognition?!"

Jim looked at him.

Bones' expression was perfectly horrified.

So, of course, he burst into laughter, leaning against the nearest wall and giving in to his amusement at his friend's expense. He couldn't help it, really – Bones just looked so freaked out. And the entire situation was just – it was ridiculous! It really was! He was _courting_ his _half-Vulcan first officer_. He'd agreed to abstain from sex for an indefinite period of time. He was all giddy, and buzzing, and he didn't know what was going on anymore, because suddenly this thing which had started as a friendship and then turned into an attraction was morphing into some bizarre, third beast, and he didn't dare think about what that might be.

When his laughter began to turn a little hysterical, he started to consider that he might actually be panicking. Just a bit.

"Alright, easy, easy," he heard Bones saying, and then a pair of hands came around his shoulders, and guided him into one of the room's two chairs. His laughter died down, slowing into chuckles and gasped breaths. After a minute, a glass of water was thrust in his direction.

He took it, glancing up to see a concerned pair of eyes watching him carefully.

"You wanna tell me what the hell's going on now, Jim?" Bones asked, pulling the other chair closer and sitting across from him.

He took a breath. "I can't, Bones," he replied shakily. "Because _I_ don't know what the hell is going on!" He gestured as he spoke, causing some of the water in his glass to slosh over and onto his shirt. This he glared at, offended by its audacity in being all sloshy on him.

The doctor gave him a look. "Well, can you at least tell me how much you've had to drink tonight?" he tried.

Jim smacked a hand against his forehead, leaned back, and groaned in annoyance. "I'm not drunk!" he said. "I can't even blame it on that. I've had nothing to drink!"

"Alright, alright, Jesus, calm down," Bones said. "How about you tell me what's happened, and we'll sort it out?" he suggested.

With a sigh, Jim slumped, and got a hold on himself. He gulped down some of his water, then frowned and glanced towards Bones. Who really was an awesome friend.

Damn. _Was_ he drunk? He was definitely thinking like it. But no, if he had to identify the emotions coursing through him, he'd say he was… overwhelmed. A little freaked out, too. But also kind of excited. It was very strange.

"He's decided to _court_ me," Jim blurted, trying to make the concept sound as masculine and dignified as he could, whilst simultaneously conveying its ridiculousness. Only the ridiculousness made it through.

Bones looked at him in surprise for a long moment. Then his mouth twitched. He snorted, lifting a hand to his face, and Jim sighed and took another drink his friend indulged in his own bout of laughter. It was considerably less panicked than his had been.

When the worst of his amusement had passed, Bones clasped a hand against his knee, and shook his head. "Oh, lord, he – _Jesus, _that's _hysterical!_ I mean, I'm sorry, Jim but… he's _courting_ you? 'Cause you're not exactly – well, you know."

Jim just nodded in absent-minded comprehension of what his friend was trying to convey. "I don't get it either," he admitted. "It's some kind of Vulcan thing."

Bones snorted. "_Vulcan_ my ass," he said, and Jim looked at him in surprise. There was a knowing expression on his face. "You know, Jim, there's such a thing as being conservative in your romantic exploits. Some _humans_ are actually like that. Or where do you think we got the word 'courting' from?"

He glared. "It's an old-fashioned concept," was his argument.

Bones let it go. "Don't get all in a twist," he advised. "So that means – what? You two are all together and everything now? I noticed you're not armed anymore. Should I take that as a good sign?"

"I… think so," Jim agreed. Then he stood up, lowering his glass to a side table in agitation and running a hand through his hair. He started to pace, restless in his confusion and uncertainty. "I don't really know. He said he wanted to – that we should just, just _court_ and not have sex until…" he trailed off, swallowed hard. "Until we can figure out if… you know. If we should do it _forever_. But of course, _that's_ not going to happen, so what I'm left with is him and me 'abstaining' until whatever this is just falls apart. And I've been trying to talk him out of this whole business of not having sex, but I don't even – I mean, I don't know what I'm _doing_ with this." He stopped, his expression turning thoughtful. "What am I doing?" he asked himself in a quieter tone.

Bones cleared his throat.

"Well," he said. "I suppose I asked for that." Then he let out a gusty breath and walked over, clasping Jim's shoulder. "Jim. I want you to look at me, and listen very carefully," he instructed.

Obliging him, Jim looked up, and Bones' expression was very sincere.

"Okay then. You're _dating_ Spock," he said, giving him a little shake for emphasis. Then he moved away, and made a face. "And don't make me say that again. If this keeps up I'm gonna be the first doctor to successfully invent brain-bleach, on account of needing to wash out so much of my own goddamn mind."

"But we're not having sex, Bones," Jim insisted. "I really _want_ to have sex with him, too. We did it this morning, but then he put a ban on it."

"Oh _Jesus motherfucking Christ,_ Jim, talk about too much information! You think I wanted to hear that?! Do you know what kind of picture that puts in my head? Hell, as if watching him and you make moony-eyes at one another wasn't enough, you just had to come flat out and say it," he exclaimed, making a dismissing gesture with his hand as if to banish the thought. "Good lord, why can't anything you do ever be _normal?_ No, you've got to speed through your academy exams and blow up the test shuttle and hack the goddamn _Kobayashi Maru_, and save the world and get named captain when you're barely out of diapers! And now you're in love with a green-blooded half-_goblin_ who puts his emotions in a tiny little box so that he doesn't have to deal with them. I am _going grey_, Jim! Do you have any idea what this kind of worry does to a man's immune system?!"

Jim did not know what that kind of worry did to a man's immune system. But he never heard that question, because he wasn't listening any more. His brain had stopped at some point just after 'in love with a green-blooded half-goblin' and was refusing to restart itself.

It took Bones a minute to realize his mistake.

"_Shit,"_ he swore, after taking one look at Jim's face. "_Don't_ panic," he said sternly, pointing a finger straight at him.

There was a pause.

Then Jim blinked, and looked over at him. "I'm sorry, Bones, what did you say?" he asked, as if his mind had just decided to blip over something it wasn't quite ready to handle.

Bones looked at him for a long moment.

But, he seemed fine. "…Alright. So _that_ was the freakiest damn thing I've ever seen," he muttered. For the sake of his sanity, however, he decided to change the topic of conversation.

Jim was only listening to him with half an ear. His 'blip' had been a fabrication. He'd caught Bones' slip-up, and even though he figured it was just a turn of phrase, a figure of speech, the words were knocking around inside his head insistently now. But of course, he couldn't have _really_ meant 'love'. What he'd meant was more like 'infatuation' or 'pre-occupying lust combined with a growing feeling of attachment and friendship'. Not _love_.

He decided that attempting to establish a difference by defining the term 'love' was a bad, pointless idea. So he wasn't going to do it.

Instead he spent the rest of the evening waiting for four little letters to quit crashing around his consciousness like a runaway bus. There was a question there, one that he'd have to ask himself, eventually. And when he did, that was probably when things would go bad. So for now he'd just let it crash and pretend it wasn't there. Listening to Bones rant about the new study he planned to start on comparative physiology was boring, but it helped.

After a few minutes, the good doctor looked over at him and sighed. "You don't have any idea what I'm talking about, do you?" he asked.

Jim shrugged rather hopelessly. "Nope," he admitted. "I don't think I even know what comparative physiology _is_. I'll guess it has something to do with physiologies, and comparing them. That's about as far I get."

Bones just shook his head. He opted to go back to his reading, and so, with little else to do until morning, Jim returned to his own 'paperwork' research. He could have taken the opportunity to call up his mother one last time before he likely left the planet, and contact got a little more complicated, but he opted not to. He didn't think he had the resilience for that just then.

The night wore on, and by the time he'd given up on his brain processing any more boring text, he felt like something had crawled into his chest and had been slowly constricting him for quite a while. Only the process had been so gradual that he only noticed it when he was lying in bed, attempting to sleep past Bones' snores, and thinking of dark eyes and a low voice and hot skin beneath his touch. 'I'll take you how I can get you', he'd said.

His last thought before he fell asleep was that he'd really set himself up for a lot of pain.

The next morning he opened his eyes to the sound of off-key singing coming from the bathroom. Very _loud_ off-key singing. He groaned and planted his head into his pillow. His dreams had not been merciful on him. Apparently, his subconscious did not agree with this whole 'not-sexing-up-Spock' idea – which wasn't to say that his _consciousness_ had a different opinion – and was attempting to make its case by plying him with ludicrously enticing dreams. Which left him with an obvious problem, and one which would have to wait until the bathroom was available for consultation.

He bet _Spock_ wouldn't be having this problem. Oh no, he could just meditate and tell his body to turn off being all sexual and stuff, and that would be that.

Lucky bastard. Jim was fairly sure it was a lot easier to abstain from sex when you're libido _had a damn_ _off switch_.

That might make a good argument, on the other hand. He made a mental note of it. Although, he'd already tried 'we should have sex because I really, really want to' and all it had gotten him was a raised eyebrow.

When Bones finally made his way out of the bathroom, Jim managed to subtly shuffle his own way inside. By the time he re-emerged he was feeling a little bit better about life in general, but still fairly annoyed with his current state of affairs. Fortunately, it promised to be a busy day, so he would have plenty to distract himself with. Vacation time was over. Now it was back to business.

He nodded to Bones as he gathered together his things, a few belongings scattered here and there in the room. The good doctor was still pre-occupied with his datapad, but soon moved over to the computer terminal. He'd have his fair share of work today, as well, before he was due to report back to the ship with the majority of the crew. Their medical staff was still mostly skeletal, and Jim knew that when they left space dock they'd have a few more nurses and aides to help round it out, at least. That would be a relief.

His mind was shifting gears into business mode when he made his way to the shuttle station. But he still noticed Spock immediately when he boarded their scheduled transport, and found him sitting patiently by one of the far windows. He settled in comfortably next to him, grinning at the acknowledging look he earned. Impulsively, he formed his hand into the 'kiss' gesture, and for the first time, extended it himself.

It would have been silly to expect anything else. But his throat still tightened a little bit when a pair of long, pale fingers promptly met his own, without the faintest hint of reservation or hesitancy.

"Jim," Spock said by way of greeting.

"Spock," he replied.

"Scotty!" a chipper, Scottish accent inserted itself into the mix, and both captain and first officer looked over to see the Chief Engineer all but fall into one of the seats across from them. Scotty leaned back over the chair, which faced away from them, and smiled in casual friendliness as they separated their hands. "Hello, gentlemen, lovely morning, isn't it?" he greeted. "Ah cannae speak for you two, of course, but personally ah'm glad to be getting back aboard the good lady. That computer crew's probably made a right mess of some of my system's modifications, yeh know, they always do with that sort of thing, ruddy programmers. It's the training course that's the real problem for them – no creativity. But I dinnae suppose it makes much difference. Give me a week, and ah'll have everything back in proper order, at the very least. So. How were your vacations? Yeh know, ah heard the strangest rumour about the pair of you when ah was coming up here. Some poor, mentally deficient lass was babbling on, saying that you two'd gone off and eloped or some such thing. And I thought to myself, well, isn't that just like a gossip to get it all wrong? Yeh never can trust that sort of information…"

Jim shared a glance with Spock as Scotty carried on, seemingly content to chat without actually pausing long enough to get a response from his audience. Which was probably a good thing. It wasn't that he was embarrassed at being in a relationship with Spock. But it was kind of hard to define something for someone else when you were having trouble finding the right words for it yourself. Also, Jim was well familiarized with the rumour mill. When it spread around that the first officer was sleeping with the captain – even if he wasn't, dammit – people might start giving Spock shit about it. He knew a few of the crewmembers had given Uhura shit for 'sleeping with' the first officer. Especially because he'd been her teacher before then, too. And if it got out that they weren't even actually having _sex_ (although he hoped to rectify that as soon as possible) then he didn't know _what_ to expect. People might assume he'd gone insane.

He was starting to wonder about that himself, really.

"Oh, Captain," Scotty suddenly said, breaking through his thoughts as he switched gears in his one-man conversation. But clearly this was the kind of question he expected to a get a response from. "Ah got yeh'r message about the new replicator upgrades. Ah dinnae know if they actually managed to finish 'em, but if it's no complete, ah'll take care of it myself this afternoon while ah'm cleaning things up. It shouldn't take more'n an hour or so, but these space dock types're a lazy bunch."

Jim nodded. "Thanks, Scotty," he replied, thinking about the mountain of paperwork he'd have to sort through in order to finish getting his crew back.

"Replicator upgrades?" Spock asked, tilting his head inquisitively.

"Yup," Scotty confirmed. "It's about time, too, ah'm surprised ah didna think of it myself. But then, ah suppose a captain's gotta be useful for something," he said this last part in a very joking manner, and Jim just laughed a little with him. He liked Scotty. Scotty was _crazy_, but in a good way. He rounded out the command crew nicely, and in a crisis situation, Jim could yell at him as loudly as he liked and he never got flustered.

"I was not aware that our replicating systems were insufficient," Spock said, only just slightly perplexed, as if he were concerned that his observational skills were somehow no longer up to snuff. Jim gave his arm a reassuring pat, almost absent-mindedly.

"Oh, ah'd no say they were 'insufficient'," Scotty chimed in. "But the variety was sorely lacking. It'd be a matter of morale more than anything, Mr. Spock, yeh see? The more options the system has, the more likely the crew'll be able to find a 'taste of home', as it were. Tha' sort of thing's important to humans." He explained this very matter-of-factly, his tone in no way implying that Spock's lack of immediate comprehension was ridiculous or unexpected.

Jim decided he liked Scotty even _more_ now.

Then the Chief Engineer began listing off some of the new foods the system would be able to produce. And for whatever reason, when he got to 'cranberries', Jim suddenly felt extremely self-conscious. He looked off down the aisle, wondering when exactly their shuttle was going to launch and folding his arms across his chest, shifting his legs.

His question was answered a few minutes later, when the familiar rumble of the starting engine sounded, and Scotty turned to buckle himself in properly. Jim's gaze was still pointedly fixed on the aisle. It was ridiculous, of course. They were just cranberries. It wasn't like he'd gone and specifically done it _for_ Spock, because as Scotty had said, there was a perfectly reasonable need for the replicators to be upgraded. So if Spock just so happened to like cranberries – as near as he could tell – then that was only a coincidence.

A moment later, his thought processes stilled as he heard the soft shift of fabric, as of Spock moving, and then felt a warm breath by his cheek. The faintest of feather-light kisses was pressed against the rounded tip of his ear.

When Jim looked over, Spock was staring innocently out his window, the picture of composure and neutrality. As if nothing at all had just happened. Scotty had been facing the other way, so there had been no witnesses. If it weren't for the persistent thumping of his own heartbeat, Jim might well have thought that he imagined it.

It had barely even qualified as a touch. So it was probably too weird to think that it had been completely worth two hours of utter tedium.

"You know," he said softly, leaning over even though Spock could probably hear him from a mile off. "Not every species has Vulcan levels of self-control."

"I am well aware of this," Spock agreed, although the light in his eyes implied that he was curious to see where Jim was headed.

He grinned in reflexive response to that look. "Well, don't you think it's a little unfair, in that case, to put a ban on sex when you can suppress those instincts, but I can't?"

When the shuttle docked, they would be on duty, and those sorts of questions would be highly inappropriate. But in the meantime, Spock seemed game. He leaned in a little closer himself, forming a conspiratorial huddle with Jim. "Perhaps," he conceded. "However, you should not underestimate the human capacity for self-restraint. It may not be equal to the Vulcan standards of control, but it is by no means negligible, either."

_Damn_. He'd turned him down, _and_ he'd managed to pay him a compliment at the same time. Oh well, there were still other arguments, he was sure. He just needed to think of them.

His grin widened a little bit, turning flirtatious. "Did you know that you have one hell of a sexy voice?" he asked. The tips of Spock's ears darkened.

"Flattery, Jim?" he asked, raising an eyebrow at him.

"Well," he replied. "I can't think of any more arguments right now. So I figured I'd put it into perspective for you – you know, give you a little insight to how incredibly hard it is not to jump you."

Oh, Jim liked that look on Spock, all intense eyes and slightly flushed skin, but straight-faced and completely neutral otherwise. Still, this was starting to border on emotional manipulation, so rather than continuing he leaned back a little and gave him some space again. He had to remember to stick to intellect and not emotion. It was tricky, because seduction was largely an emotional game.

Something – maybe disappointment, maybe relief, or maybe even both – flickered briefly behind Spock's gaze. Then he returned to observing their flight through the window.

Soon enough, there she was. His ship. Docked and waiting for them. He looked upon her and for a moment just stilled in a feeling of familiarity, and possessiveness, and pride.

Damn, but he loved his job.

Across from them, he heard Scotty give a contented sigh.

When the shuttle docked, they were greeted in the hanger by the head of their computer sciences repair team. He seemed affable enough, and greeted them all appropriate according to rank. But as they walked through the almost _eerily_ empty corridors of the ship, Jim noticed that the man was directing most of his comments to Spock and Scotty. He gave an internal huff of annoyance. Granted, he wasn't an engineer or a scientist, but the pertinent facts weren't horrifically complicated, and besides, he was _good_ with computers. The memory systems had been badly damaged, and therefore, replaced. A few upgrades had been added as well, including more communications terminals on several decks, and an improvement to the operating systems in engineering. The _Enterprise_ had one of the best computers in the Fleet, so fixing the memory had been a taxing process. Jim followed along with this information just fine. In fact, he shared a glance with Scotty at the news about the upgrade in engineering. The man looked distinctly unhappy. His expression clearly said that he wasn't looking forward to finding the repair team's jammy handprints all over his set-up.

"Dinnae worry, captain, ah'll fix it," he grumbled, as the project head addressed several comments to Spock, and all but shepherded them to Main Engineering.

When they got there, Jim let out a low whistle. They'd changed a few of the consoles' configurations, and even though he wasn't terribly familiar with engineering, he could see that a lot of shit had been moved around.

Scotty had frozen like a robot whose power had just been cut off. It reminded Jim of what _he'd_ done when he'd found out that there was to be a moratorium on sex between himself and Spock. The project leader was beaming from ear to ear.

"It's a whole new interface," he said proudly. "Since we had to take the computer apart anyway, we decided to update the entire configuration. The _Enterprise_ is the first ship in the Fleet to see these kinds of changes."

"…Ah see," Scotty said, his face oddly blank. "Well. That's very interesting. Yeh've gone with some of Professor Thorndyke's concepts on workplace design, have yeh? Ah read a few of the man's books. Very… complicated." He said the word 'complicated' in the same tone which a person might say 'mentally retarded'. The word 'needlessly' danced invisibly in the pause after 'very'.

"I think you broke my Chief Engineer," Jim noted, feeling distinctly ruffled. He hadn't signed off for this many changes. It must have gone over his head – and no one had seen fit to inform him about them, until, apparently, the last possible minute.

The project head chuckled. "Don't worry, it'll run much more smoothly this way," he assured them. He reminded Jim of a camp counselor who was attempting to assuage the groundless fears of several young charges. "The boys in theoretical design have been all aquiver over this for a while now."

"Oh. Ah see," Scotty said, as if he'd just been informed that a group of rampaging chimpanzees was responsible. "Yes. Ah'm sure they've put in all _kinds_ of bells and buttons and whistles, and little chutes that deliver coffee and biscuits straight to the work-stations. Because yeh cannae run a starship without _biscuits_, now can yeh?" His face was getting a little red, and one of his nostrils was flaring.

Wisely, Jim took a step away from him. He knew a volcano when he saw one.

"Ach, and _look_, isn't that _lovely_, yeh've gone and put shiny plastic hoods on everything," he said, marching over to the nearest work station. "So if ah've to quickly check the anti-matter units, all ah've got to do is lift this wee piece of plastic up. Now isn't that convenient? Not like before, where all a person had to do was _walk the bloody hell over_."

"…It's to keep dust off of the equipment…" said the project head, suddenly looking massively uncomfortable. Spock was watching the proceedings with just a hint of curiosity.

"_Dust?_" Scotty demanded, looking at the man as if he were a complete lunatic. Jim was beginning to think that finding a good seat and some popcorn wouldn't be a half bad idea. "_Dust?_ What the bloody blue blazes kind of a Main Engineering gets _dust?_ Yeh need to have people standing still, workplaces left unattended, or surfaces untouched if yeh want to gather _dust_. That's the daftest thing ah've ever heard! Dust! In _my_ Engineering!"

"Mr. Scott," Spock broke in, and the focus of Scotty's rage shot him an infinitely grateful look. He had misjudged the first officer's intended response a little bit, however. "How long do you estimate it would take to repair the damage?"

The man's face fell.

Scotty straightened a bit, giving everything an assessing look. "If ah start right now, only a day or two. We can still get underway – the systems ought to work fine, unless they've mucked _that_ up. Which wouldna surprise me much."

"I don't think you understand," the project head insisted, finally flashing a pleading look to Jim, of all people. "It's an _upgrade_. I realize the changes might seem a little unfamiliar, but I'm sure if you just-"

"We'd better test the systems, then," Jim said, cutting him off, and mustering all the captainly authority he was capable of. "I wouldn't want to delay Mr. Scott's repairs. Shall we start with communications and work our way down?" he suggested.

"That would seem prudent, Captain," Spock agreed.

"In that case, if you wouldn't mind getting started, Mr. Spock?" he asked, before, with a decisive nod, he turned back to the project head. "So. You'd better tell me who the hell approved these changes, because I know I wasn't made aware of them, and going out on a limb here, I'd guess that Mr. Scott wasn't, either."

The engineer in question was now currently rummaging through one of the tool kits for a hyperspanner, clearly intent on not wasting any time. He was muttering sarcastically under his breath.

"Now, wait a minute," the man said. Jim guessed he was about Admiral Pike's age. He probably had a name, but that seemed supremely unimportant at the moment. "I can show you the systems. Just, let's everyone calm down…"

Jim frowned. "Are you calm, Mr. Spock?" he asked, keeping his gaze fixed on the fellow who'd essentially messed up his Main Engineering. Well, according to Scotty, anyway, but Jim was highly inclined to take his word on that.

"I am quite calm, Captain," Spock replied from one of the stations, where a soft beeping whirr was accompanying the prompt movements of his fingers.

"Well, I'm calm. Have you calmed down, Mr. Scott?" he inquired.

"Aye, Captain," Scotty agreed, amidst several clanks and bangs. He'd already started stripping the plastic hoods off of the stations.

"Good. It looks like everybody's calm to me, and I have more than enough faith in Mr. Spock's abilities to assess the ship's systems. So – since I'm the one people have been addressing as '_Captain'_, and this is _my_ ship, and _Mr. Scott's_ engineering, why don't you tell me who approved these changes?"

Jim had no idea what he'd do with such information, except that it might be nice to have a name to affix to the higher-ups that seemed intent on treating him with less respect than his rank deserved. He had no idea what kind of picture he was painting – young, brash and unreasonable, stern and demanding, angry or insulted. But either way, he was the captain.

This was _his_ ship.

---

**Author's Note:** Now we're back aboard the ship. Stuff will be happening, even though this was another one of them slow-type chapters.

Oh, and I just have to mention that at 2000+ reviews, I don't know what to say to all the support. So instead I'll shut up and go write some more story.


	20. Chapter 20

Jim was very pleased when the project head informed him that Admiral Nogura had signed off on the additional upgrades. He was pleased because it apparently meant that, at the very least, he _could_ order that kind of information out of people. And now he knew what name to swear at whenever he was left massively out of important loops. He decided to look at the incident as a milestone in his role as captain. Then he kicked the repair team off of his ship, and started the process of getting his actual crew back aboard – beginning with Scotty's engineering team, who had something of a project on their hands. He also participated in Spock's check of the ship's systems, but not as much as he might have before. His faith in his first officer's abilities and, more importantly, loyalties had taken a sharp upwards spike, all things considered.

The forms he had to fill out provided him with a strangely interesting game now, too. It was still boring tedium, but there was an edge that came to it whenever he got to send something back, inquiring as to why 'additional information' was being requested of him. It wasn't as fun as attempting to talk Spock into bed with him, and the potential rewards were nowhere near as enticing, but nevertheless. It was nice to indulge his rebellious, argumentative side. Albeit kind of quietly.

Still, this wasn't the part of the job he loved. They were still docked, and he'd only been on the bridge briefly to check over some of the systems there. It was still fulfilling in its own way, however, because everything he was doing was part of getting ready to get _out there_ again. Once the last of the crew had returned, all they'd need would be the all-clear, and their orders, and that would be it.

Jim needed to get the orders from communications. Which meant he needed to get them from Uhura, as she was the ranking communications officer, and the one stationed on the bridge.

He felt inexplicably wary about this.

Fortunately, more pressing and immediate tasks allowed him to put it off until the end of the day. In addition to his paperwork, there had been several new crewmembers to introduce themselves. One of his security personnel had put in a request for a transfer when they docked, which he'd granted – the guy was a jerk anyway – so his replacement would be signing on, and there were the new nurses and medical aides. Six new crewmen, all in all. Well, he reconsidered, four new crewmen and two new crewwomen. The highest ranking of them was a pleasant blonde woman called Nurse Chapel. It was considered good form for the captain to greet such additions, and so he went around and shook hands and extended the customary 'welcome aboard's. Bones had immediately set his staff to work with orienting the newcomers and triple-checking the medical database, to make certain nothing had been left out. He'd barely spared a grunt of greeting for Jim, but then, they were all busy.

As the hours wore down, however, he knew he couldn't put off getting the necessary information from his communications officer. So he put on his best 'business' face, made his way to the bridge, and walked straight up to where she was sitting at her station.

"Here are the orders from Starfleet. Sir," she said without preamble, handing him a datapad almost distractedly as she double-checked the status of the linguistics systems. The 'sir' was added on with an air of her having just momentarily forgotten it – no real disdain. Just their usual interaction, in fact.

"Thank you, lieutenant," Jim said a little stiffly, taking the information and then making a grateful retreat. He didn't know _why_ he should have felt so nervous. Clearly she didn't know – and even if she _did_, how she handled it was her business. And it was ridiculous to think about that while he was on duty, anyway, because if he let things like that get to him, then he'd be compromising himself in no time.

He sequestered himself in the conference room to read the orders anyway.

The _Enterprise_ had been designed to be an exploration ship. But with a large portion of the Fleet lost and resources spread thin, she was often doing double duty on tasks that would normally be assigned to other vessels.

Like, apparently, escorting a large cargo ship carrying sensitive geological equipment and supplies to Vulcan II.

Jim looked over the assignment in his hands with interest. The _Uwibami_ was specifically designed to service Federation colonies, and had already made several trips to the new Vulcan settlement. But the last two times it had been intercepted by pirating vessels, which were suspected to be Klingon in origin. As a cargo ship its weapons systems were negligible, and so both interceptions had resulted in the loss of the supplies and equipment it was carrying. The colony needed every resource it could get. It was important that the Federation prevent any more such interceptions, and so the goal of the _Enterprise _was twofold – protect the cargo ship, and send a message to any attacking pirates that they could randomly expect constitution class vessels to blast them to smithereens now.

Jim felt a hard, cold anger at the idea of someone pirating the resources meant for Vulcan II.

Once they left space dock, the _Enterprise_ was to rendezvous with the _Uwibami_ just past Pluto, and then begin their escort mission. He found he had no issues with this assignment, even though the _Enterprise_ was probably over-qualified for it.

He was a little worried about briefing the command crew, however. Specifically, he was worried about how such news would affect his first officer. But Spock could handle it – and Jim would do what he could to help.

Thinking on it, he decided it might be a good idea to apprise his first officer of the situation beforehand. He had to force himself think _twice_ about it, to be certain that he wasn't doing it because of their personal relationship. But on thinking twice, he decided that it didn't matter – if Spock lost his temper (though he seemed to be doing much better on that front) then it was better for him to get it out of his system well _beforehand_, regardless of everything else. There were a lot of reasons why it wouldn't be good for him to get too expressive in front of the other crewmembers, all personal issues aside.

Exiting the conference room, Jim found his first officer at his bridge station, working with his usual quiet diligence.

Hmm. He was going to have to train himself to not check him out when they were on duty. It seemed to have become reflexive. Hey! There was another argument! Most likely, if they had enough wild, hot, passionate sex with one another, his physical urges would be sated to the point where Spock's natural attractiveness wouldn't distract him while they were on the bridge. Theoretically, anyway.

Mental note made.

"Mr. Spock," he said, drawing his attention, as well as a few other glances. At the helm, Chekov leaned over and smacked Sulu on the arm, gesturing pointedly towards them with his head. Apparently, even if Uhura hadn't, some people _had_ heard the rumours. "You got a minute?"

Spock straightened, inclined his head, and with an 'of course, Captain', left the bridge alongside him.

He got a sideways glance when he stopped the turbolift mid-transit.

"Jim," Spock said, and he found himself inordinately pleased that he was still 'Jim' when it was just the two of them. For some reason he'd been a little worried that 'Captain' would prove contagious when they were onboard the ship. "We are on duty."

He grinned, wondering what exactly Spock thought he had in mind here. "I know," he assured him. "What? You changed your mind and now you want to have a quickie?"

If the pointed look he got was any indication, that was not the case. Well, damn. It had been nice to hope.

"Would I be correct in assuming that 'quickie' refers to something sexual?" Spock asked.

"Yup," Jim confirmed. Then he sighed, and forced himself to sober. They _were_ on duty. The sex talks could wait until their shifts were up. "Okay, enough of your shameless flirting. I actually wanted to talk to you about our assignment." He held up the datapad with their Starfleet orders in one hand, pointedly, and then extended it.

After a moment, Spock took it, his eyes scanning the text on it with efficient speed. Jim leaned back against the lift's rounded wall, and let him read. He watched his reactions carefully as he did. They were neutral, closed in, and unemotional. Pointedly _not_ broadcasting anything. Which meant that he was feeling something, and suppressing it with a will. Anger was the best candidate.

When he was finished, Spock wordlessly handed the datapad back to Jim.

"Are you concerned that I will be compromised?" he asked bluntly, after a pause. Jim gave him a long look. Then he shrugged, and folded his arms.

"I was more worried that you'd have a bad initial reaction in front of the crew," he admitted, tapping the datapad slightly against his side in a somewhat agitated gesture. "I thought I'd give you a minute before I briefed everyone else."

Spock folded his arms behind his back, turning away from him a little. "You should not grant me special privileges, Jim. It is inappropriate."

Jim frowned at him. "This isn't about _us_," he said, gesturing between them. "I can be professional, you know. This is about me – _Captain Kirk_ – making sure that my first officer, _Mr. Spock_, is well-prepared for the mission at hand. Just because I know you doesn't mean I should pretend that I _don't_, especially not when it helps run this ship."

On that note, he started up the turbolift again, taking them back to the bridge. Spock didn't seem like he was going to explode, so it was better to just get back to their duties, for now. When the door opened, he was halted momentarily from walking out by a hand on his arm. It was just a swift gesture, just to stop him up for a moment.

"In that case, Captain, thank you for informing me," he said, and then with business-like efficiency, both of them exited the lift. Spock returned to his station.

Jim looked over to see Uhura staring straight at him. She looked concerned, but not in the 'are you alright' kind of way. More in the 'trouble is brewing' kind of way. For a moment he just stood there, pondering on what the proper response would be. He'd had to deal with ex-so-and-so's in the past, but never ones who worked for him. After a beat he headed over to his chair, deciding there really wasn't anything _to_ do, and set about examining the systems connected to his armrest. Everything was in working order.

Time to see if his command crew was available for briefing, in that case. Since they were still docked he didn't need to give anyone the bridge, but before he left, he gave Sulu a pointed nod anyway. Just in case. Then he forced down his unease and addressed Uhura. "I'm going to fill everybody in on where we're headed. In a few hours, please transmit our orders to Mr. Chekov's station so he can do the announcements."

She blinked at him. "So soon?" she asked, surprised. "Only, I thought they were still working in engineering. Sir."

"They are," he confirmed. "Make the announcements anyway. We're still getting out of this dock – Mr. Scott's repairs are mostly superficial. Unless any departments have reported trouble?"

"No, sir," she replied.

"Good," he said with a nod. "Mr. Spock, you're with me again. Lucky you."

Chekov smacked Sulu's arm once more. Sulu shook his head, making a 'no way' gesture. Neither of them thought that Jim had noticed. But he'd gotten pretty good at observing bridge activities.

Spock followed him to the conference room, where Jim promptly walked over to the intercom and sent for Bones and Scotty, who were the only other two officers privy to all the little details of most missions. CMO's, as near as Jim could tell, got to hear _everything_ unless it was espionage-related (and even then, sometimes) and Scotty needed to know because he was third in the chain of command. It was standard procedure. But, Jim realized, it probably didn't hurt that he also really quite liked his commanding officers, and so trusted them with most information.

The briefing didn't take long. Both Scotty and Bones were anxious to get back to their departments, with mutilated engineering interfaces and trainee medical aides to deal with. Jim was happy to inform them and let them go. Then he checked the time. The last of the crew – some security officers and maintenance, mostly – would be shuttling up soon. After that, there'd be ship-wide announcements courtesy of the 'wery talented' Mr. Chekov, and he'd finally have a free moment to himself.

He was contemplating kidnapping Spock and absconding to his quarters with him at that point. In a perfect world they would then relieve the day's tensions with Jim's favourite pastime, but in the likely event that his first officer remained his stubborn self, he'd settle for some good conversation and lip-locking.

Spock headed back for his station, and Jim went to overseeing the return of the remaining crew. Somehow, once the last ensign was aboard, he felt… better. More right. His ship was complete, and they'd be ready to set out, back to what he now thought of as his 'real life'. It was probably strange that the planet he'd grown up on seemed less real than the vessel he'd only had for a few months, but there it was.

He also found a spare minute to send a special dispatch to Admiral Nogura, requesting that, in future, he and his Chief Engineer be consulted before any major changes were made to engineering. It was very polite, and formal, and official-sounding. Jim was hoping that would make it feel a little more like a kick in the pants.

When Chekov's familiar, accented tones chimed through the ship, he grinned, and only lamented the fact that _Uwibami_ didn't have a 'v's in it. At least 'Vulcan II' did.

The ship's internal clock turned over, and Jim was officially permitted to be all non-captain-y for a while. Well, as much as his status _as_ captain would allow, anyway. He'd still have to supervise their departure from space dock and rendezvous with the cargo ship once the last of the systems checked out, which would probably be in a few hours. That'd put him in for a late night, but he couldn't in good conscience delegate those responsibilities elsewhere.

Still, he'd enjoy the break while he had it. He decided to go through with his plan of kidnapping Spock, but when he made his way to the bridge, his first officer had already departed. Uhura was on her way out, too.

Jim found himself in the awkward position of riding the turbolift alongside her.

The awkwardness jumped several factors when she stopped the lift mid-motion, and turned to him, a rather stern expression on her face.

Uh-oh.

Uhura folded her arms, and regarded him carefully for a moment.

"So. Is it true?" she said at length.

Jim contemplated how useful the ability to walk through walls would be.

"Is what true?" he asked, kind of hoping that she'd produce something random and completely non-Spock-related to talk about.

She let out a breath. "Well I _know_ you didn't elope with him," she started, and Jim's hopes were dashed. "I thought it was just a rumour, but even rumours get their starts."

"Oh. That's… interesting…" Jim said, considering what would happen if he just reached over and re-started the lift. This was just so _awkward_. First he'd gone after Uhura, and then Uhura had hooked up with Spock, and now Spock was hooked up with Jim. Kind of. In a convoluted, no-sex sort of way. Well, on the other hand, it was more sex than either of them had had with Uhura.

It probably wouldn't be wise to mention that, though.

"Okay, I'm just going to come flat out and ask it," Uhura said finally, and Jim resisted the temptation to move to the furthest other side of the lift. "What are you doing with him?"

Quickly, Jim's mind scrolled through his options. Option one – deny everything. He didn't like that. He was starting to think that he might have some slightly possessive instincts towards Spock, and denying that there was something between them went against that grain. Plus, if word got back to Spock, then he might think he was embarrassed or wanted to break it off, and nothing good would come of that. Option two, rub it in her face. Also probably not a good idea. He still had to work with her, for one thing, and for another, it was a little _odd_ to gloat about scooping up the ex-boyfriend of your former crush. Option three would be to tell her it was none of her business, and assert his rights as an individual to have some privacy in his relationships. Judging by the intent look in her eye and stubborn set of her stance, he wouldn't get very far with this unless he was prepared to become obnoxiously obstinate about it.

"That's not your business, lieutenant."

Never let it be said that he couldn't do 'obnoxious' when he wanted to.

She frowned at him, and that worried expression came back. "So there really _is_ something going on?"

Well, he'd already decided that he couldn't flat out deny it. So instead he hit the button to start the lift again.

"Like I said. Not your business," he insisted, setting his hands behind his back and facing the exit of the lift, trying to look very stern and captainly. It was getting easier to pull that off, but apparently, it was harder to get it to work when you were trying it on a woman who'd seen you get your ass handed to you quite a few times in your academy days.

She stopped the lift again. "It _is_ my business," she insisted. "Because he's my friend, and I know what kind of guy you are. So I want to know what you're doing with him. What's your game?"

Jim frowned, and hit the button again. There was a little lurch as they restarted their downward movement. "I don't have a game," he said defensively, before he could catch himself and remember that he was supposed to be doing the equivalent of 'no comment'.

Uhura reached over and, once more, hit the button. He was starting to feel seasick. "You honestly expect me to believe that?" she asked. "Listen, _Captain_, I'll admit you've done a good job with your command so far, and you're not the hopeless case I used to think you were. But you've got to have some kind of game. That's just the way you operate."

Not wanting to play stop-and-go anymore, he gave in to his urge to move away, and instead leaned his back against the door. He treated his communications officer to a cocky grin. "Okay," he said. "You're right. I have a game. Secretly, I'm planning to steal his brilliant Vulcan mind and put it into a giant computer so that I can use his genius to take over Starfleet Command. Eventually, I'll move on to the Federation in general, and then the Alpha Quadrant as a whole. It'll be glorious. I'm thinking I'll go with the title of Grand Emperor Kirk, but I'm still on the fence with that one."

Uhura gave him an unimpressed look. "Is _everything_ a joke to you?" she asked.

Jim shrugged.

His communications officer stiffened then, and reaching over, restarted the lift. He moved away from the doors. "Fine," she decided. "I'll ask _him_ about it. But if I find out you're stringing him along, or manipulating him, or toying with him, then I'll make life as a captain very difficult for you." After a pause, before the lift stopped, and doors opened, she added: "After everything that's happened, he can't handle something like that."

Jim found he had a strange, mingled reaction as she exited and walked away. On the one hand, there was something to be said for Spock having a friend who stuck up for him. Apart from Jim, of course. On the other, he didn't like the idea of someone trying to protect Spock from _him_. Here he'd been doing his damndest to avoid taking advantage of the situation, and he was – for lack of a better word – a little lost in all of what was going on, so he didn't appreciate being accused of epically asshole behavior. Even when he was at his playboy finest, he wasn't _that_ guy. He didn't set out to toy with people, or hurt them. Most of the time the goal was just to have fun, and everybody knew it. Even when he'd been chasing after Uhura herself – she'd known straight away what he was about, and what he was after. Maybe it _was_ a game. But Spock was serious, and so, Jim would never have toyed with him.

Making up his mind, he straightened, and at a quick pace, followed Uhura down the corridor.

"Hey," he said, and she drew up short, looking back at him in mild surprise. "I'm not that big of a dick," he declared resolutely.

There. That was all he wanted to say. Satisfied now, he turned and headed back the other way – until he remembered that Spock's quarters were in the direction Uhura had been going.

Damn.

He hesitated, turning around again. She was watching him. Considering.

After a beat, he headed back towards her, intent on keeping his gaze averted and just going straight past. She started walking as he drew even with her, matching his steps. It became swiftly clear that they had the same destination. Almost in unison, they shot each other suspicious glances.

"Where are you going?" she asked him.

"…Where are _you_ going?" he countered, quickening his pace a little. She moved to match him, and so soon enough, they were both essentially speed-walking down the corridor. Jim bypassed the entrance to his own quarters and headed straight for Spock's.

He managed to hit the call for the door first, but it was a near margin. A moment later, it slid open, and Spock drew up short at the sight of himself and Uhura, standing there, regarding one another with open – if only moderate – hostility.

It looked like he was sincerely considering just closing the door again.

But, of course, he didn't. Instead he straightened, shooting them both an inquiring gaze and folding his hands behind his back. "Jim. Nyota," he greeted blandly.

Okay. So maybe this was a particular bit of awkward hell which Jim could relate to. He'd had his exes meet his currents before, and it was _never_ good times. In the best cases they just fought each other. In the worst, they both turned on him at the same time. He did feel a bit guilty about partially creating this situation.

Then again, he'd be damned if _he_ was the one who was going to leave.

"Spock. Can I talk to you?" Uhura asked, beating him to the punch.

_**Dammit**_**.**

"Hey, _I_ wanted to kidnap him," he protested. Spock raised an eyebrow at him, and then exhaled softly.

"Jim," he said, in that _tone_. The one which implied he was being ridiculous, but also seemed to carry some fondness with it, as if his particular brand of ridiculousness was _slightly_ less exasperating than everyone else's. "I have not spoken to Nyota in some time. If you would not mind, I would like to converse with her."

Okay. That stung a little. For a moment he could see it all flashing in front of his eyes, then, how it would fall apart. Spock would realize that Jim was just a wild fling, and that he liked being with Uhura better. He'd break off their 'courtship' and go running off with her, to live happily ever after, and all he would last as would be a memory of a first sexual experience… a milestone, maybe even one he regretted…

"…only take a few minutes," Spock was saying, drawing him out of his extremely unpleasant mental image. Then his first officer's eyes narrowed marginally as he took in his expression. After a beat, a tentative, long-fingered hand reached out and rested on his arm. "I will meet you at your quarters shortly," Spock assured him, "and I look forward to it."

The sincerity in his voice successfully banished the chill of his sudden thoughts. He nodded, shooting a glance at Uhura, who was staring at them both with something akin to shock. Then he straightened, wondering what he might have looked like, and made his way back down the corridor. To his own quarters. Which, at least, were very close to Spock's.

_She's his friend,_ he reminded himself. Even though it was a little strange to think about being friends after a break-up, or even really keeping touch. Jim had broken up with people and been friendly _to them_ afterwards. He'd also broken up with people and then gotten back together with them again, like Marlena – which probably wasn't a comparable experience. But the whole 'let's just be friends thing' was, to his knowledge, a myth.

He told himself that he was being an idiot. Then his paced his quarters, which were just as he'd left them, and scowled, and reminded himself that jealousy wasn't exactly the universe's most attractive emotion. Even though he wasn't _jealous_. He was just… _concerned_.

What were they talking about?

…

…Was Uhura saying unpleasant things about him? Like the things she'd said in the turbolift? What if she was? What if Spock _believed_ her?

Pausing for a moment, he shook his head, and then slumped down into the chair at his desk. He was being an idiot, he was well aware of that fact, but for some reason his brain just would _not stop_. The next several minutes he spent trying to get it to behave yielded little in the way of results.

He nearly leapt back out of his seat when the door chime sounded. It hadn't been locked. Perhaps anticipating this, Spock walked in straight afterwards. His gaze immediately fixed on Jim, who'd sprung up like a jackrabbit, and was now just sort of standing there, momentarily locked in uncertainty. His gaze darted over his first officer as the door slid shut behind him. This regard was returned, and after a moment, Spock tilted his head. He got that look in his eye again, as if he'd just figured something out. Something about Jim.

"You are apprehensive," he noted.

"Pfft. Nah," Jim denied, clearing his throat afterwards and adjusting his posture so he looked less like he might just dash away at any given moment. Alright, so, maybe it wasn't the most convincing denial ever, but he was kind of jittery right then.

Spock took several steps towards him, stopping when he was roughly an arm's length away. "My previous relationship with Nyota makes you uncomfortable," he insisted. Then he paused, as if waiting to see what Jim would do.

After a minute, he shrugged. "…Alright. Maybe a little," he agreed, swallowing and not _quite_ meeting the half-Vulcan's eyes.

"I see," Spock replied. "Would it perhaps reassure you to hear that I have no further romantic interest in her, and that even if my relationship with you were to come to an unsatisfactory end, that lack of interest would not be changed?"

...Huh.

Actually, that _did_ make him feel a little better.

After a moment, he relaxed a little, forcing himself to ease up. "It'd reassure me even _more_ if you changed your mind and had mad, hot, crazy sex with me," he suggested, mostly in a playful fashion. Spock's eyes were smiling at him.

"Perhaps," he agreed. "Or perhaps it would merely give you the erroneous impression that I am only interested in you for the sake of physical gratification."

"I swear it wouldn't."

Spock inclined his head in a vaguely apologetic fashion. "Such emotional responses can be difficult to predict, even by the individual afflicted with them. It would be irresponsible to make assumptions."

"I'll tell you what," Jim said, moving a few steps to close the distance between them. "The second I start to feel like you're taking advantage of me, I'll let you know." Then he leaned and, with great care, ghosted his lips over Spock's. A tease of a kiss. His first officer remained stiff and poker-faced, but he couldn't kill the expression in his eyes, and Jim knew he'd scored a point. A little one, at least. He couldn't stop himself from heaving an internal sigh, however. Time to exercise some of his ever-growing reserves of self-restraint and pull back.

Spock made a very, very tiny, slightly odd little sound when he stepped away. Jim never would have caught it if he hadn't been standing so close, or if the room hadn't been utterly silent otherwise.

He found that he was inordinately pleased with that sound.

"Did you say something, Spock?" he asked, completely unable and unwilling to keep the cocky grin from spreading across his face.

It didn't stay on him for long, however, as suddenly he was bombarded with warmth and touch, a hand running through his hair and another winding around his back, Spock's mouth finding his own and crushing their lips together. It was very far from the soft, 'approved' kiss which was supposed to be the extent of their interactions.

Jim was not about to complain.

But then it was over, almost as soon as it had begun, and he was left to make his own sound of disappointment as he went from passionate embrace to just sort of standing there, with Spock nearly clear on the other side of the room. He blinked, and frowned, and then gave his first officer a _look_, trying to convey the general sentiment of 'and just where do you think _you're_ going?'

"I should not have taken that liberty," Spock immediately said, shutting down like a prison colony on alert status. Jim rolled his eyes.

"Why the hell not?" he asked. "I _like_ it when you take liberties with me. Take as many as you want."

That earned him a dry look. But his lips and skin were still tingling, and he felt unrepentantly pleased with himself, so he countered the look with a wink.

"They're free," he added for good measure.

But Spock was reeling himself in so much that he was beginning to look increasingly upset. Which was odd when he thought about it, because to actually _look_ at him, you'd think he was doing his impression of a clothing store mannequin. And not one of those creepy, ever-smiling types, either. It was more like he was shooting for the kinds that were so expressionless they didn't even have a face. That kind of image should have conveyed the impression of 'robot', if it conveyed anything, but Jim's brain was now translating it as 'almost freaking out'.

He relented, because he knew he actually hadn't convinced Spock's _mind_, yet, or else the guy wouldn't be on the other side of the room. Glancing around, he searched for something to change the flow of topics. His gaze landed on the chess set which Sam had bought him when he'd signed up for Starfleet. His brother's words had been that, since Jim wasn't even _trying_ to hide the fact that he was a 'genius' now, he better get used to genius-style pastimes. He'd never actually had an occasion to use it.

"Do you know how to play chess?" he asked at length.

Spock followed the line of his vision. "…I do not," he admitted.

Jim smiled. "Hey, that's good news. I don't know how to play either," he declared, and then cheerfully retrieved the set, and placed it on his desk. After a moment he started setting up the pieces.

He'd gotten one row down before Spock moved closer, approaching him from the opposite side of the desk. "Your declaration does not seem logical. If neither of us is familiar with the game, how will we be able to play it?" he asked.

"We'll wing it," Jim replied. "And I actually _do_ know a little," he admitted, and then proceeded to outline the basics of chess as he understood them. He had to double-check what moves several of the pieces were capable of with the computer, but that gave him the opportunity to use the new system again before they left dock, so he decided to mentally count it as another 'database check'.

Spock followed the concept with some interest, unwinding from his tight, withdrawn mask bit by bit. When Jim had finished explaining and all of the pieces were set, he was surprised by a movement from Spock, who grasped the board and then turned it so that black was on his side, and white was on Jim's.

At his captain's questioning glance, he explained. "Given my superior mental processing skills, it would be unfair of me to take the first move," he reasoned. "Besides which, I find the association between myself and the darker pieces to be somewhat… appropriate."

Jim recalled the vast and tantalizing darkness he'd associated with his first officer in the meld, and somehow, looking at him, _knew_ that was what he was referring to. It made him feel a little embarrassed and incredibly pleased all at once.

"Hey, I guess they do match your hair," he replied casually, shifting a little before he sat down, and regarded the board in careful thought. Spock followed suit, and thus began their first game of chess.

All things considered, Jim was expecting to get steam-rolled. Chess was a notoriously intellectual game, and Spock was a notoriously intellectual individual, with a very high learned curve, so it stood to reason that he'd get his ass handed to him on a silver platter. He didn't _want_ to lose, he just wasn't exactly expecting to win, either. The point was to distract his first officer into calming down without closing up. But after the first few minutes, he began to find that the strategy was a lot more enthralling than he'd initially expected. Spock was good, but he made very statistical, clinical moves. In a way it was irritating, because he could systemically shut down most of Jim's plans. But the half-Vulcan also had a clear disadvantage at predicting his captain's moves – probably because a good many of them were random, but also because, Jim found, the more plans he made at once, the harder it was to decipher what he was driving towards.

Spock still won, but it was a much closer and more interesting experience than either one of them had expected. Their conversation actually fell to the wayside as they focused on the game. There was something, Jim decided, about watching pale fingers move dark pieces that just… fit. He found himself glancing appreciatively at his first officer's fixed, intent expression as he examined the board, clearly intrigued.

"Well," Jim said when they were finished, holding up his fallen king in thoughtful consideration. "That was kind of interesting."

"It was… engaging," Spock agreed, his gaze moving over Jim, an air of contented amusement drifting ambiguously around them.

_He's checking me out,_ Jim realized suddenly, noting how his first officer's eyes subtly drifted over his form, lingering on certain lines and shadows. It was a pleasant surprise. He wondered how many other times Spock had given him that kind of examination and he just hadn't noticed it. Experimentally, he leaned back, flexing a few muscles and stretching himself out a little more. Spock raised an eyebrow at him.

"You know," he said, seizing the opportunity and taking the risk of putting on his flirtatious tone again. "I was thinking about it, and we might be posing a risk to the crew by not getting it on."

His comment garnered an amusingly skeptical look. But, he noticed, Spock's attention didn't drift too far from his form, either. "I do not see how," he replied.

"Hear me out," Jim suggested. "Now, see, just because we're not _having_ sex doesn't mean we're not _thinking_ about having sex. In fact, we're probably thinking about it more than we would otherwise. Or at least I am. Kind of like how a person doesn't think of food as much when they've had plenty to eat. So if we're on the bridge, being all distracted by thoughts of the sex we're not having, that's a bad thing. A distracted captain and first officer – not good."

"Jim…"

"No, no, just listen," he insisted. "It's a good one – I promise. Right, so here I am, distracted by all my thoughts of how much I want to have sex with you, and I'm not focusing on my duties as much as I should be. That's a danger to the crew. But if we're actually _having_ sex then I'm not _thinking about_ sex – and neither are you – and we're able to do our jobs more efficiently and safely."

Spock regarded him for a moment. Then he folded his hands, leaning forward slightly. "Your hypothesis hinges on the assumption that frequent sexual activity will decrease thoughts of sexual activity?" he clarified.

Happily, Jim nodded.

"…May I remind you that we had sexual intercourse yesterday, Jim?"

"Really? Huh. Feels like that was weeks ago."

"It was not."

"Okay. So, we've narrowed down a general timeframe for how frequently we'd have to do it in order for this plan to work…"

Spock gave him an unconvinced look.

Still, as he pushed ahead in his plan to convince him, Jim felt, for the first time, oddly certain that he'd be able to pull it off.

It was just a matter of _when_.

---

**Author's Note:** Uhura's worried about Spock. We'll see more of her and less of her harder edges eventually. Oh! And for those who aren't familiar with him, Admiral Nogura was kind of like the original version of what Captain Pike became in the new film. He knew the senior Kirks, and in the prime universe, he was the one who assigned Jim to the Enterprise.


	21. Chapter 21

Jim was dead on his feet by the time he stumbled into his quarters, after the rendezvous with _Uwibami_ was complete. He left the bridge in Spock's capable, Vulcans-only-need-like-five-minutes-of-sleep-a-week hands, and quite happily collapsed onto his regulation standard bed. The important part was that they were on the ship, and they were moving through space, and so he was content with the state of affairs. Even considering the lack of first officers in his sheets.

At least he was too tired to dream.

The next morning he was fairly cheerful when he made his way to the mess hall. He stole an apple off of Bones' tray – earning himself an eye-roll as the good doctor then went to retrieve another one – and sought out Spock. Who, he was happy to see, had made the addition of several cranberries to his otherwise unfamiliar plate of Vulcan cuisine.

He was less happy about the fact that Uhura was sitting next to him.

Both of them looked up as he sauntered over, masking some of his discomfort by taking a large crunch out of his stolen apple. Quite pointedly, he looked at his communications officer, and then sat down on Spock's other side.

"Good morning, Jim," Spock greeted, a little more stiffly than he had the other day.

For a moment, Jim considered extending his hand for a 'kiss'. He wondered if Uhura would know what it meant. But the mood was a lot more closed off than he'd expected – well, he hadn't really thought about it much, truth be told – and a part of him was afraid that if he _did_ extend it, he'd be left hanging. Regardless of what Spock had said about returning the gesture. Besides which, even though it was only touching fingers, it seemed somehow like it would be a much larger display in the crowded mess hall, and Spock was doubtlessly not the type for public displays. He decided he wouldn't do it.

He nearly dropped his apple when Spock did.

It was very subtle, almost under the table, but still, very clear as well. Especially because he did it with the arm which was on his opposite side. Surprised, and a little thrilled, Jim connected their fingers, and felt once more that indistinct, pleasant warmth. It only lasted for a very brief moment. Then Spock inclined his head, as if to say 'there, relax', and turned back to his meal.

Jim was floored. Had he just… how had he known that he'd wanted to reach out? Or had he even known? Was he really that obvious? Damn. That was kind of awesome, though.

Uhura was gaping at them. So it was a safe bet that she knew what they'd done. Before she could speak, however, Bones and his tray joined them.

For one surreal moment, Jim felt like he was at the academy again. Or in highschool, with the public dining facilities, and the strange, convoluted romantic entanglements. Except it couldn't be highschool, because there were other people sitting at the same table he was.

"…I can't believe you just did that," Uhura finally said, directing her incredulity to Spock.

Bones shot an uncomfortable glance between all three of them. "_Don't_ tell me what they did!" he declared abruptly. "There's no use in eating breakfast if I'm just gonna lose it afterwards."

"Perhaps you should make some effort to diagnose the cause of your frequent bouts of nausea, Doctor," Spock said evenly. "An unhealthy Chief Medical Officer does not bode well for the crew as a whole."

"Oh, believe me, Spock, I already _diagnosed_ the damn problem," Bones grumbled back at him, giving him a withering look. "And goddammit, Jim, quit gaping at him like he _is_ your breakfast, or I swear, I'll start eating my meals with the nurses. The lovely, _lady_ nurses… why the hell am I even _over_ here?" he muttered, but nevertheless, stayed sitting.

Jim was a little surprised at being called-out, but then he caught himself and just grinned shamelessly. "Sorry, Bones," he said, not sounding the least bit apologetic, and turned his attention back to his apple instead. After it was done he decided he really was actually hungry, though, and left for a minute to get himself some real food.

When he got back, Uhura was questioning McCoy.

"How long have _you_ known about this?" she asked, before gesturing lightly in Spock's direction. "I can't get anything out of either of them."

Bones shrugged. "Well, it ain't my place to say," he replied. "Besides. I keep tryin' not to think about it." He punctuated this statement with a pointed look of distaste. Jim retook his seat next to a conspicuously silent Spock.

"Ears," he said helpfully.

"Oh, _goddammit, Jim_, so help me, I will poison you and make it look like an accident!"

"Even if you succeeded, Doctor, such an action would still substantially tarnish your medical reputation," Spock pointed out, before shooting Jim a curious glance. Jim winked, and the ears in question turned just the tiniest bit darker by way of response.

Uhura watched this entire interaction with open curiosity, leaning one arm against the table and resting her chin upon it. Most of her observations seemed to be focused on Jim, who was beginning to put on an increasingly cocky attitude by way of reflexive response. It was what he always did when he was under negative scrutiny, and he was going to assume that Uhura's scrutiny was negative.

"So," he said, straightening in his chair with an odd combination of devil-may-care attitude and authority. "Any problems last night?"

"We suffered no difficulties," Spock answered him promptly. "There was a minor accident in engineering. An ensign was burned by a misaligned power relay, but the injuries were not substantial. All systems appear to be functioning normally, and the _Uwibami_ is still accompanying us safely and without incident."

"Good to know," Jim said happily. He glanced around the mess hall, taking in the milling activities of the crew, and the few covert glances their own table was being subjected to. Over a ways away Scotty was sitting with Sulu and Chekov. Catching his eye, the Chief Engineer gave him a wave and then a thumbs-up. Jim chose to take it as an impromptu engineering status report. The helmsman and the navigator both pointedly looked in the opposite direction at his glance, however. That wasn't too unusual for Chekov – he had his weird, socially awkward moments, what with being the youngest crewmember – but Sulu was typically quite friendly to him. There was something to be said for a man who'd jump off of a mining rig and risk falling to his death for you, after all. Of course, if they were talking about what Jim _thought_ they were talking about, then it made sense.

He wondered if there were any bets going around yet. These kinds of rumours usually prompted them.

With a shrug, he decided there wasn't much for it, and went back to his breakfast. Spock completed his own a few minutes later, and with his usual efficiency, excused himself to his duties. Jim watched him go, and then pointedly ignored Bones' muttering about 'moony eyes'.

There was now an empty space between himself and his communications officer.

He started eating faster. The one time he glanced over, she made the 'I'm watching you' motion with her hand.

Strangely, he didn't know if she was joking or not. He would go with 'not', because she still kept looking at him as if he were a shoe that potentially had a spider hiding inside of it, but the turbolift animosity seemed to have toned down. Then again, that could have been because Bones was sitting right across from them, and his friendship with the doctor was ship-wide fact. Just like the man's protective streak.

"Oh, calm down, lieutenant," Bones finally cracked, having watched Uhura shoot Jim uncertain looks for the better part of several minutes. "Jesus. Spock ain't made of glass, and even if he were, Jim wouldn't break him."

Uhura gave him a slightly skeptical look. Jim graced Bones with a cheerful smile of thanks at being defended.

"I'm not saying you'd do anything to him on _purpose_. Necessarily," the communications officer said, shifting a little and turning her glance between them. "But romantic relationships are very serious for Vulcans. And Spock's been through a lot. You can't just mess around with him."

"I know that," he defended. Then he looked over at Uhura, feeling his own unease, and an awareness of his ineptitude with this situation.

It occurred to him that it might help if he tried to think of her as Spock's version of Bones. After all, the good doctor had made his own 'if he screws up, how about we poison him?' offer, comments about squishy underbellies notwithstanding. Even though he'd never had _that_ kind of relationship with the man, he supposed that if he forgot that Spock and Uhura had dated, then her concern as a friend made sense. She didn't know what Spock saw in him – as Bones didn't know what Jim saw in Spock – and if she had the an idea of some of his first officer's _troubles_, then she had a good reason to be worried.

"What do you think I'd do to him?" he asked, suddenly curious.

Uhura looked at him in surprise, clearly not expecting the question. Then she considered it for a moment, turning it over in her head. Likely, she was also turning over what thoughts she would omit in response, or how to phrase it all while keeping in mind that Jim was still the ship's captain. "…I'm not sure," she admitted at length. "Get bored with him, maybe. Run around on him. I _know_ you're not sleeping together."

Bones glared at his breakfast. "Yeah. So do I, unfortunately," he grumbled. Then, deciding, he gathered up his tray and stood. "That's it, I'm done. You two enjoy your chat about whatever the hell it is you find appealing in that man," he advised, before all but stomping off.

Somehow, though, Jim highly doubted that they were going to broach that subject.

After a beat, he said: "I'd break up with him first."

It was true, too. If he stopped wanting to be with Spock, then he'd just say as much to Spock. If he got tired of trying to talk his first officer into bed and decided he'd rather just have sex with someone else, well, that would be that. Though the idea of doing that didn't hold any appeal for him. In fact, it seemed very repugnant.

Uhura shook her head at him. "See, that's the problem," she said. "You're doing whatever it is that you do, and thinking in terms of 'right now'. But _he's_ not. If he's with you, then he's thinking in terms of years."

Jim knew that. Spock had said as much. It wasn't his fault – all he'd said was that he would try, because he wasn't ready to part from his company, from this growing affinity they had. But just because _he_ knew that nothing lasted forever didn't mean he was responsible for Spock's idealism. Or his cultural differences.

"I know all this," he said at last, and then stood, wondering if he should have even bothered speaking. A momentary flare of defensive temper surged up in him as he made to leave, seeing that suspicion back in her eyes again. "But considering that _you_ weren't with him for 'years', I don't see how you can tell me off," he blurted, before he could stop himself.

Uhura's eyes widened at this declaration. Immediately, Jim felt a bit bad. He wasn't prone to judging other people's relationships, and he knew the split between the two of them had been amicable. Maybe that was why their friendship got on his nerves a little bit – if they'd slid apart, then wasn't it just as possible that they could slide back together? But if Spock said it wasn't, then he was also inclined to believe him. So it was all just a bit confusing.

"…I guess you have a point," she conceded after a long, tense moment. Jim was surprised. "But even though it didn't work out, I _was_ thinking in his terms."

_Which is more than can be said for you_, hung silently in the air.

Jim found he didn't like the sentiment. But he couldn't think of anything to say against it. So instead, he turned, and made his way quietly from the mess hall.

When he got to the bridge he didn't meet Spock's gaze, or Uhura's when she arrived not long after. It was still a little early to report to duty, but he didn't have anywhere else he wanted to be. So instead he got to work on officially updating himself on what Spock had already told him, and monitored the status of the _Uwibami_. Vulcan II was further from Earth than Vulcan had been, and the cargo ship was fairly slow, so it would be a couple more hours before they reached their goal.

Right when they dropped out of warp, that would be the likeliest moment to encounter trouble. According to reports, that was when the ship had been attacked the last two times.

He'd only been on the bridge for about an hour when Spock called his attention. "Captain," he said, and Jim looked over to find his first officer staring at him from the science station. He moved to his side.

"Mr. Spock?"

"If I may have a word?" he asked. Jim glanced around, noting that there was a fair amount of quiet around the station, and then leaned in closer.

"Sure. What is it?"

Spock was not _quite_ frowning. But it was clear that something was bothering him, in that subtle, I-don't-know-how-I-know-but-I-do kind of way. He was starting to think that Vulcans suppressed their emotions so much that they shoved them into the air around themselves. "Something about these attacks does not add up. The pirates are believed to be Klingon because of the make and model of their vessels. However, their behavior is not consistent with that of Klingon raiders."

Jim frowned, considering. He knew a lot about Klingon military tactics, and warfare, because he'd studied plenty of it in the academy, and they'd had a few close calls the past couple of months to test his knowledge. He was sure he had a good handle on them, all things considered. But pirates were different – they didn't have military structure, so even with traits that were _culturally_ motivated, their behavior would be more difficult to presume. It would depend on the individuals in charge.

"What do you know about Klingon 'raiders'?" he decided to ask, since he himself had already covered the information on the pirates they were expecting.

"Not a great deal," Spock admitted. "They are uncommon. But as with most of their species, they adhere to warrior principals, and engage in blunt, ruthless tactics. If they were truly responsible for these attacks, I would not expect the crew and ship to have been spared on both occasions."

Jim considered this, sizing it up against what he knew of Klingons, and what he knew of the pirates. Spock made a good point. "Agreed," he decided. "Something about it stinks. Maybe someone's trying to stir up trouble between the Federation and the Empire?"

The _last_ thing the Federation needed right now was a war. After the _Narada_ incident, most of their potential enemies had started sniffing around the borders for signs of weakness. Only the Romulans had stayed quiet. They seemed to have made the executive decision to emphasize their disassociation with Nero and the destruction of Vulcan by withdrawing in their usual, xenophobic fashion. Maybe word had reached them that, in a hundred or so years, they'd have a supernova on their hands, and they'd decided to devote their energies to a solution. Maybe they were embarrassed. That was anyone's guess, but for the moment the Federation was happy to leave them in their corner of the galaxy, and they seemed happy to remain there.

Jim wandered back to his chair, but didn't sit, opting instead to rest a hand against the back of it and think. After a moment, he realized that he'd just essentially leaned in close proximity to Spock and held a whispered conference with him without really thinking about his physical presence. Surprised, he glanced back at his first officer, wondering if some delayed response had kicked in and _now_ his unexpected attraction had run its course.

Spock had gone back to his work, his eyes narrowed slightly and frame bent at the waste as, for whatever reason, he decided to forego the use of his chair. Jim assessed him.

Nope. Still smokin'.

Pleased, he could only conclude that it was his preoccupation with the job at hand that had kept his mind from wandering. He was actually relieved, even though it hurt his 'hey, we should jump each other to keep from being distracted on the bridge' argument. He'd been a little genuinely worried about that.

Of course, the fact that he was thinking of it _now_, while still on duty and with a matter still at hand, probably counted as a strike against him. But nevertheless. Good job, Captain Kirk.

He turned his mind back to the job, and with a better mood now. If it wasn't actually Klingons, then they _may_ have to hold off on the 'blowing them to smithereens' part of the process, if for no other reason than to find out what was going on. It was possible that this was some kind of trap or set-up. Considering this, he called up what information he could on the space-flight capable species in this sector. Any with anti-Federation or anti-Klingon sentiments would be of interest. But, to his surprise, he found nothing. There were a few populated worlds. However, with the exception of Vulcan II, none of them had warp-drive capability yet.

Then again, it was very possible that the location and target were chosen because it _was_ Vulcan II. Everybody knew how shaken the Federation had been by the near-annihilation of one of its founding species. At this point, if any group wanted to supremely piss them off then targeting the colony would be a good way of going about it. After all, it wasn't like Starfleet command was _known_ for giving orders to the tune of 'make an example of them'. Not that Jim was about to hold it against anybody.

The problem occupied his mind as he went about his duties, but he knew he wouldn't really have an answer until they dropped out of warp.

"Captain," Sulu said with some alarm, at right about the estimated time for their arrival. "The _Uwibami_ has dropped out of warp."

"_What?_" Jim said. Protocol was always, _always_ that the escort dropped out of warp first, in case there was anything unpleasant lying in wait. He swore, and even as he did the _Enterprise_ dropped, too, and the viewscreen lit up to the unpleasant sight of two Klingon ships. A cruiser and a smaller scouting vessel, both closing in on the cargo ship. They were older models, neither of them any match for his _Enterprise_, but still formidable enough to destroy the _Uwibami_.

"Lock phasers onto the enemy ships and open a channel," he ordered immediately, the bridge crew moving to obey as a sudden, thick tension spread through the air. "Unidentified vessels. This is Captain James T. Kirk of the U.S.S. _Enterprise_. You are in Federation space and intercepting a Federation ship. So power down your weapons and back the hell off, or we _will_ open fire on you."

Okay, so maybe that wasn't _exactly_ official protocol-speak towards the end there, but it got the point across.

There was the briefest of moments, his heart thumping in his chest as he watched the Klingon vessels circle the _Uwibami_ like sharks. Why had they dropped out of warp first? Was it just some bout of stupidity, or was there a traitor onboard the vessel?

"No response, sir," Uhura informed him from her post.

"They're charging weapons, Keptan," Chekov added.

Jim swore again. "Mr. Sulu, try and get us between them and the _Uwibami._ Target their shields and weapons systems," he ordered. But he didn't think they'd be able to maneuver into position in time. Only for a second, he hesitated. These kinds of orders could bring death – even if it was the death of aggressors. Then: "Fire."

The spacescape was lit up with the deadly colours of phaser light. The Klingon vessels had split their targets – one firing on the _Enterprise_, the other, the _Uwibami_. Both shots were wide, inaccurate – the _Enterprise _was missed completely. The _Uwibami_ took a couple of direct hits, one of which damaged their cargo hold.

"Enemy shields are down to ten and fifteen percent," Chekov informed him. At the same time, Sulu finally got them between the pirates and their target.

"Open that channel again," Jim ordered. "Unidentified vessels. I repeat. This is Captain Kirk of the Federation starship _Enterprise_. Stand down."

There was another quiet, tense moment, which felt like it lasted much longer than it did.

Then the viewscreen changed, intercepting the response. The bridge which stretched before them was definitely Klingon – but the crew was definitely not. Jim didn't recognize their species. It looked mostly human. Sitting in center stage was a man, presumably the leader, with short, yellowed hair, and a series of odd bone protrusions along his cheeks. They appeared to be a common trait for his people.

"Federation Captain Kirk," said the man, blinking a pair of strange, vertical eyelids. "We surrender."

Jim straightened, his curiosity heightened. "Are there any more of you?" he asked.

"No," the man replied. "It is only we two. That is all we have." His voice was solemn, but to Jim's ears sounded sincere. Still, he was smarter than to take their word for it.

"Mr. Spock?"

"Sensors show no signs of other vessels, Captain," Spock confirmed.

Satisfied, Jim nodded. "Alright. Lieutenant Uhura, hail the _Uwibami_ and find out what they thought they were doing," he instructed. Then he turned back to the viewscreen, where the alien crew was still waiting, their postures rigid, solemn – but frightened. If their species showed fear the same way most did, at least.

"In the meantime," he said. "Maybe you'd like to tell us who you are?"

Silence. Straight-faced, cold silence, like that of prisoners refusing to divulge sensitive information.

After a moment, Jim shrugged. "Alright. Lower your shields, and prepare to be boarded."

There was more silence. But the pirate leader turned to one of his crew, making a gesture with his hand, and after some activity, Chekov reported that their shields were down.

"Mr. Spock, have Security Chief Giotto prepare the appropriate teams for securing their ships," Jim instructed, delegating the task to his first officer as he focused his attention on the viewscreen. He folded his arms, puzzling over this little mystery he'd been presented with. Klingon ships, but not a Klingon crew. A species he didn't recognize – and while there were a _lot_ of space-faring peoples out there, he had a pretty good memory for that kind of thing. Something about this whole set-up was rubbing him the wrong way, and it wasn't just the general wrongness of piracy, either.

Pirates shouldn't have much hesitancy about identifying themselves – not after they'd been captured, anyway. If anything, they should be screaming their government's name loud and clear in the hopes of getting a diplomatic break. And the behavior wasn't lining up. They'd opened fire, as if they thought that they could take down a Federation Constitution Class Starship, but any sane person would know _exactly _how that would play out.

"And Spock?" he added more quietly, as his first officer got the Security Chief on the line. "Tell them to look out for traps. I want those ships thoroughly scanned for any signs of bullshit before they beam over."

A stiff nod was his reply, but he didn't need anything more than that. He re-addressed the alien crew. "Our security teams will beam aboard your vessel. You will be placed into custody. If you resist or attempt to flee, we will open fire. You've violated Federation law by pirating and attempting to pirate our cargo ship," he said, moving to the middle of the bridge and standing, legs apart and voice strong. "These are serious crimes. You will be prosecuted for them."

Nothing. No protests, no requests to have their own government contacted. They weren't a Federation species, he was almost certain, so that wasn't the issue. Radicals, maybe? They were tight-lipped enough. The only thing he'd gotten out of them was their surrender… but then again, most radicals _didn't_ surrender.

After a minute with no further response, he turned away, making the 'cut' gesture that signaled to end the transmission. The screen showed open space again. "Lieutenant, contact Starfleet Command. We're going to need another ship for this, it'll be too risky to try and escort both vessels and their crew on our own. Tell them we've captured two Klingon vessels – that should cheer them up." There were always some maniacs in the research and development teams who loved to get their hands on even out-dated enemy technology. He _could_ escort them to the Vulcan II colony and leave the pirate crews there for another vessel to be sent, but he wasn't under any orders to do so, and his curiosity with this situation was compelling him to stick with it.

"Aye, sir," Uhura agreed.

"Has the _Uwibami _responded?"

"It's coming through now," she informed him, and then she tilted her head, adopting the look of concentration which said that she'd gotten the message and was piecing it together. "Their captain sends her apologies. Their engines are old. Apparently they forgot to re-time their drop out to synchronize with ours before they went into warp."

"Damn," Jim said, wondering briefly if it was a deception. But that might just be starting on the slippery slope to paranoia – the ship _was_ old, and it was the entire situation that was making him uncomfortable. Not necessarily this aspect in particular. "Ask them if they need any help."

With a nod, Uhura turned to her task. Jim frowned, his mind running circles around this. _Something_ was trying to piece itself together, an idea just on the periphery of his mind. He could almost…

There.

The suspicion formed, suddenly, clearly, and with intent he moved over to one of the computer stations and quickly called up the information on the nearest inhabited worlds. None of them had warp drive capability.

But as he sifted through the information, looking pointedly for _visual_ references this time, he realized that one of those species was manning the two ships drifting on his viewscreen.

For the umpteenth time since the _Uwibami_ had dropped out of warp, Jim let loose a string of profanity. He didn't know about Klingon pirates, and he didn't know about Klingon opera, but he knew about Klingon tendencies to commit violations of the Prime Directive agreement between the Federation and the Empire. There had been several incidents of them providing technologically primitive species with weapons or mechanics far beyond their level of development.

Although, somehow he doubted that they'd just handed two of their ships over to a race which, according to their information, had only recently obtained nuclear capabilities on their own world.

Then again, Jim honestly couldn't say _what_ was really going on until he had more information.

"Sir, the _Uwibami_ has informed us that some of the geological equipment they were carrying has been damaged, in addition to one of their cargo holds. But otherwise they're unharmed. They're requesting permission to proceed on impulse to Vulcan II."

Jim thought about it.

"Alright," he said at length. "Let them go ahead. And open a channel to the Klingon cruiser again."

With a nod, Uhura complied. The alien bridge crew was just as they had been before communications were cut, as if they'd never moved. Maybe they hadn't. Jim adopted his 'captain's stance' and faced them once more.

"According to our ship's computers," he said. "Your people call themselves the Irri?"

That got him a reaction. A flinch, from a few of the bridge members. Not the leader, though. Jim regarded them thoughtfully. "Your civilization isn't capable of advanced space flight yet," he noted, eliciting a few surprised reactions from his _own_ crew. "How did you get access to Klingon technology?"

They didn't respond, maintaining their silence.

Jim considered his options. Then he spoke again, deciding to try the gentler approach. "The Federation's different from the Klingon Empire. We have laws that are supposed to protect peoples like yours. If the Klingons have done something to you, we might be able to help. Or find a good reason to overlook your piracy."

For a moment, he thought he'd just get more of the silent treatment. But eventually their leader spoke again. "We cannot stand against your weapons," he said. "We submit to your judgment."

Jim regarded him carefully for a moment. Then he turned to his first officer. "Are the security teams ready, Mr. Spock?" he asked.

"They are," Spock confirmed.

"Good," Jim said resolutely. "Make sure they secure the ships' computer systems as well. If there's any clue there about what the hell is going on, I want it." He looked back to the Irri crew. "Our people like to use relevant circumstances to mitigate our judgments. We won't pass them until we understand what's happening."

There. _That_ seemed to give them pause for a moment. Or at least, their leader blinked again, and shifted his position slightly. Jim was suddenly very, very grateful for all the time he'd spent with Spock lately – it seemed to have increased his capacity for picking up on subtle body language. Not that he was exactly a slouch before, but there was something to be said for the proper motivations.

"Our words are our own," he said at length, before he closed up again, like a man prepared to face his death sentence.

_Damn,_ Jim thought, not liking any of this one little bit. "We're going to have to find out, whether you help us or not," he said.

Silence.

After a minute, he sighed again, and cut the connection once more. Well, he'd let the security teams handle it for now. Someone was going to have to go to the Irri homeworld to figure out what the hell was going on there.

"Captain," Spock said, approaching him as he considered their options. "The _Uwibami_ reported that some of their geological equipment was damaged during the firefight. This equipment is integral to the colony's development, and its delayed presence has already begun to have ramifications on the settlement. Given that the enemy ships are no longer an immediate threat, I request permission to contact the _Uwibami_ and assess what has happened. We may be better equipped to help with any necessary repairs than the colonists are at this time."

He was still, stiff, and formal, which in itself silently conveyed his anxiousness. Jim looked at him for a moment, and then nodded.

"Go ahead, Mr. Spock," he replied. "But keep me informed."

"Of course," Spock agreed, before swiftly moving off to carry out his task.

Jim regarded the two Klingon ships still drifting on screen, and frowned. This was shaping up to be one hell of a mess. The _Uwibami_ had been damaged, the pirates were technically still protected under the Prime Directive, and the Klingons had gotten their hands into who-the-hell-knew-what. Not to mention the fact that the only people who probably knew what was going on were being incredibly tight-lipped about it. His instincts were telling him that the next step would be the Irri homeworld. But they couldn't up and leave the two ships to go investigating, and there wasn't enough room in the _Enterprise_'s brig for both crew compliments, either.

There was nothing for it but to wait it out on Starfleet Command's response.

In the meantime, _talking_ to the Irri crews, however unproductive, was the best option remaining to them.

"Lieutenant," he said, moving over to Uhura's station. "Contact Security Chief Giotto. Let him know I'll be joining his teams onboard the cruiser."

"Sir?" she asked, surprised.

"Hey," he said. "Maybe they'll be a little more receptive to talking face to face." Then he turned, heading for the turbolift. "Mr. Spock, you have the bridge."

He missed seeing the briefest look of concern in his first officer's eyes as the doors to the lift slid shut behind him.

Using a transporter wasn't really supposed to feel like much of anything. If you asked Bones, it left a man with an itchy sort of discomfort, and the nagging idea that they might have left some piece of you behind. Jim was pretty sure this was psychological. But he personally was often a little weirdly tingly after he'd been beamed somewhere, so then again, maybe not.

The Klingon cruiser had none of the _Enterprise_'s airy openness about it. The walls were painted a weird sort of cream-grey, and the lighting was tinged with red, making him feel like he'd just walked inside a moldy condiments jar. But it also smelled oddly disinfectant-y, as if someone had scoured the interior from top to bottom.

Probably not a good sign. Especially not for the Klingons who'd originally been onboard.

Giotto met him in the transporter room. He was about fifteen years older than Jim, their most experienced senior officer, and didn't always seem too keen on being part of the youngest crew in the Fleet. At the moment he was regarding his captain with something akin to exasperation.

"Captain," he said, nevertheless polite, as Jim descended the transporter pad.

"Lieutenant Commander," Jim returned with equal professionalism.

"Permission to speak freely?" Giotto asked, as they made their way into the corridor. It was an unexpected question – usually the Security Chief just did what was required of him, expressing his lack of enthusiasm only in the occasional look or gesture.

After a beat, Jim nodded. "Granted," he said, managing to catch himself before he replied with 'yeah, go ahead', which definitely sounded less captainly.

"There's no good reason for you to be here, sir," Giotto informed him bluntly, folding his hands behind his back as they walked. Most of the doors on the ship had been opened wide, preventing the creation of hiding places or ambush spots. Several sections had security personal already stationed outside them, marking that they'd been checked and found clear, but required some kind of guard. "I'm more than capable of doing my job as Chief of Security, and that includes questioning detainees. You would have been better served to stay on the bridge, and let me handle things here."

Jim glanced at him. "I'm not here to undermine your ability to do your job, Mr. Giotto," he replied. He could kind of see where the guy was coming from, he supposed, although he was a little off in his assessment of things. "What we've got on our hands is shaping up to be a Prime Directive shitstorm. You can handle detainees, but this is probably a mangled First Contact and a diplomatic nightmare all wrapped up in a probable violation of a treaty agreement with the Klingon Empire. That sounds more like the purview of the captain to me."

There was an uncomfortable pause.

Giotto blinked. He was looking at Jim with an expression that said he'd had no idea his captain even knew what words like 'purview' _meant_.

_Well I do, so suck it,_ Jim thought to himself, but he found he wasn't angry. Especially when his Security Chief actually deigned to retract his protest and agree with his perspective.

"We haven't been able to get much out of their computer yet," Giotto then volunteered. "The database is locked, and in Klingon. There's access to the main systems, but it looks like whatever the original crew was doing, they were keeping a lid on it."

"When you're satisfied that the ships are completely secure, I'll assign some communications officers to help with the Klingon," Jim said. Then he let Giotto lead him the rest of the way to the ship's mess hall, where several armed security personnel had corralled the pirate crew.

When they entered, the Irri were all standing in the center of the room, hands at their sides and expressions varying from pointed neutrality to a sort of wary defiance. The leader he recognized from the viewscreen was at the front of the group. When he saw Jim, he did his strange, sideways blink, and then shifted so that he was facing him, legs braced apart and chin slightly raised. In person, he was at least a full head taller than the majority of humans in the room, including the captain.

"Federation Captain Kirk," he said, and Jim decided all at once that he _was_ more chatty in person. If only because he'd said anything at all.

"Just Captain Kirk is fine," he replied, moving a little closer into the room. The security personnel came a little more sharply to attention at that. "What should I call you?"

There was a pause. Jim got the distinct impression that he was being sized up. Then the leader straightened his shoulders back, and said: "My words are my own." There was a certain tension which fell over the room at that, and the other Irri also set their shoulders back and straightened their stances. A few even scowled.

Information on most pre-warp societies was usually pretty sketchy, especially when their words were somewhat on the periphery of things resource-wise. All Jim had been able to find out about these people was their rough level of technological advancement, the fact that were called 'Irri', and the name of their homeworld. None of that could tell him what the hell was going on.

"Does that mean you aren't talking?" he asked. The fellow blinked again – but this time he proved that he had four sets of eyelids, because it was a horizontal blink.

"Your weapons are stronger than ours," he repeated. "But I am stronger than you. If you want my words, you will have to tear them from my stomach."

…That was probably one of those cultural turns of phrase which didn't translate well.

"I'm not looking to tear anything out of anybody," Jim said. "All I'm interested in is finding out what's going on."

Another horizontal blink. He was sure, now, that the expression was pointed, although what it meant was still up in the air. "Coward," he said.

Jim bristled, even though he knew it would probably be the smartest thing to just take the high road and not react at all. But he couldn't help it. Not only was that pretty damn insulting, but the way the guy said it gave him the impression that he thought it was even _more_ insulting than Jim did. Going off of the looks on the other Irri's faces, he'd say there was a solid foundation to back that thinking up on.

Okay, diplomacy, diplomacy. He was starting to see why the Klingons might have been interested in these people. He could put two and two together – their leader was challenging him to a fight.

It would probably not be a good idea to accept. The guy was like twice his size, and his culture probably had a whole set of rules for combat which Jim would be utterly unfamiliar with.

Then again, if it got them talking…

No. It was still a bad idea.

"My people try and avoid solving things with violence," he said, even aware as he did that, especially coming from _him_, that was a bit of a load. It probably would have been more accurate to say '_ideally_ my people ought to _prefer_ to try and avoid solving things with violence, most of the time'.

"_My_ people do not choose cowards for leaders," the Irri threw back, and then he made a gesture with his hand. It was a cutting motion just below his waistline. Going out on a limb and making a few assumptions, Jim guessed that it was meant to imply that he had no balls.

Okay. The guy wasn't _that_ big. He was pretty sure he could take him.

"Let me get this straight," he said. "If I fight you, you'll tell me what I want to know?"

"Captain…" Security Chief Giotto said uncomfortably. Jim raised his hand to cut him off, keeping his gaze fixed on the Irri leader.

"If you are stronger, my words are yours," the Irri replied.

"Alright," Jim decided. He had then planned to ask, essentially, what the rules were, but his apparent acceptance seemed to signal 'fight time' to his broad-shouldered adversary. An arm lashed out, taking an immediate swing at his head. Reflexively, he ducked.

"Don't fire!" he immediately called to the security team, knowing straight away that they would if he didn't stop them. But there was no way to know how shooting at the Irri leader would go down, except for the understandable assumption that it would not go down _well_. In an instant, Jim was able to gather that this was to be a fist-fight, both from the swing at his head and the earlier declaration regarding the differences between weapons' strength and an individual's.

Unfortunately, the second he took to order his security officers not to stun the bastard cost Jim a moment of attention, which resulted in having a very sharp knee planted in his gut. The breath was knocked out of him and stars danced across his vision at the painful blow. A moment later, however, he managed to pull away, doing an awkward, skidding half-roll to put some distance between himself and his opponent and get a damn second to _think_. Apparently the Irri were all for getting straight down into things, however, because the leader came right after him, moving to take another swing. He was strong, but his motions were fairly stiff. A little awkward.

Jim's only advantage was speed. Fortunately, he was used to fighting people who were considerably larger and slower than he was. Who would've thought that bar brawls would come in handy when it came to diplomatic relations? He managed to plant a couple of good hits, but each one bruised his fists, and didn't seem to dent his opponent very much.

The few blows that landed on his own person were jarringly painful. He kept low, trying to use the other guy's size _against_ him by attacking his legs, and ducking his moves. Jim decided it probably wasn't the most straight-up tough-guy fight he'd ever had, considering all the darting around and dancing he was doing, but it seemed to be working. Several minutes in the Irri leader was starting to wear down, tiring, but he himself was still going steady. _He can't keep up the pace,_ Jim noted, before he ducked and twisted and managed to plant a boot in the guy's kidney.

Presuming he kept his kidneys where humans did, at least.

There was a low growl, the first sound the Irri leader had made since they started their fight, and then Jim was too slow to duck a sudden bursting, bruising fist as it lashed out and connected with the side of his head. He staggered back, stars dancing across his vision and pain lancing through his skull like an explosion. As soon as it landed, he knew it was bad. Fractured cheek bones and eye-sockets kind of bad. The sort of thing a certain doctor would string him up for.

But he kept his footing, and when he could finally bring himself to uncurl his head from his arms and try to regain some sense of orientation, it was to note that the Irri had fallen. He was lying on the ground as if he'd twisted and collapsed, the last of his energy expended with his final lash outwards. His breathing was heavy and his eyes were closed.

The others were all staring at them in silence.

Jim was too out of it to notice much else, like the fact that his security officers were looking at him with varying degrees of awe, or that the Irri were all rapidly blinking their vertical eyelids at him. All he could do at the moment was make a pained sound that only _wished_ it was the curse word he intended. His head _fucking hurt_, dammit, and his perception of the universe was being shot to hell.

"Giotto to _Enterprise,_" he heard, albeit painfully. "You're going to have to lock onto Captain Kirk and the pirates' leader and beam them aboard. They're both in need of immediate medical attention."

"Copy that, Lieutenant Commander," Uhura's voice drifted back over the communicator. "Can you affix a signal to the pirate crewmember in question?"

Giotto moved to place his communicator atop the fallen Irri, who was lying very still apart from the heavy in and out of his breaths. "Signal ready," he said to it after he'd laid it down, and then stepped back. A moment later the dull, almost-bronze swirl of dematerialization surrounded them, and when Jim re-appeared in the transporter room, he found his ability to stand finally abandoned him. The universe tilted unpleasantly, and he tumbled off of the transporter pad, which definitely didn't help his situation any.

"Captain!" he thought he heard whoever was manning the station exclaim. The only impression he managed to get around the swirling, pounding torrent of _pain_ in his skull was the vague red of an ops uniform. Then again, that might have been his blood. Sometime later, which might have been a moment and might have been an eternity for all he could tell, there was the sound of running footsteps, and a familiar southern drawl cursing into the air.

Gentle hands pulled him out of his awkward, sprawling position, and he closed his eyes and found it very difficult to think of anything other than the fire running across half his head. He was pulled onto a stretcher, and someone was asking his name.

"Dammit, Jim, answer me!" he finally made out, as some of his disorientation and pain-induced nausea faded a bit, and let him focus again. There was a whirring by his ear.

"Bones," he managed to say, and immediately regretted moving his jaw. "_Shit,_" he hissed, although the word actually came out more like 'shttt', instinctively moving his arms up to his hurting head. They were halted firmly mid-motion.

"Don't move," he was instructed. Nothing else, either – which meant the CMO was stressed, and too stressed to even bother with his usual litany of curse words and reprimands. Well, it _felt_ like he'd caved in half of his face, so he could only hope that wasn't _actually_ the case.

A dull, medical light rested over him, bleeding through his eyelids as he was moved with disorienting speed through the corridors. The pain began to lessen, and he exhaled slowly in genuine relief as it did.

So… why had he picked the fight with the alien guy who was twice his size again?

He was _sure_ there had been a reason, but right now he was also sure that he was an idiot. Although, he was the idiot who actually won the fight, so at least he was less of an idiot than his opponent.

Then again, he hadn't split the other guy's skull open, either. At this point he'd take 'very, very tired' over 'fire, pain, agony, someone shoot me _now_ and vaporize my nerves so that they stop screaming at me, _please_'.

After a while he felt brave enough to risk opening his eyes and taking in the sight of the medical bay, and Bones' hand running something blinky over him.

"What is the captain's status?" he heard Spock's clipped tones ask. Which was a little odd, because he couldn't see Spock. It made sense, however, when Bones darted over to the com system and angrily punched the button for it.

"_Goddammit,_ Spock, I'll tell you when I'm sure of it," he barked into the box, and then seconds later was back at Jim's side, and doing something welcomingly soothing with a pen-shaped object to the side of his cheek. One of the new nurses was running a scan on him, too. "How many fingers, Jim?" Bones demanded, holding up his hand.

It took him a moment, but he got there.

"Two."

The silence told him he'd gotten it right. Well, that and the fact that he knew there were two fingers. He'd gotten in trouble before for just guessing on that one in the past. Especially when he got lucky and guessed correctly. With his eyes shut.

After that he was instructed to stay as conscious as he could while light whirled and pain lessened, and hands moved around him. He'd guessed pretty accurately about what had happened when he'd been hit. His cheek bone was fractured, but his eye socket was more or less alright. His jaw had taken a beating, too, and one of his back teeth had been halfway knocked out. There were other injuries as well, from earlier on in the fight, but he was understandably less worried about those than the ones on his head. His hands were pretty beat-up from his initial punches, though, and it was as he was reclining against the medical bed with some crazy device strapped to his skull that he finally noticed the blue and purple bruises which had flowered under his skin, and the stiff, drug-numbed ache which throbbed up his arm when he tried to move his fingers.

Well. _That_ sucked.

He decided to turn his attention elsewhere, and instead focused on the Irri leader, who was lying quietly not too far away. He was, as Jim suspected, mostly just exhausted. The way his people had a certain economy of movement to their gestures was starting to make sense to him, now, if they didn't have a lot of stamina. As he regarded him carefully, the Irri met his gaze – surprisingly awake – and then, after a moment, blinked his vertical eyelids at him.

Huh. No more horizontal blinking.

"Doctor," he heard a familiar voice say from the front of the medical bay, and turned his gaze – as much as he could, with somewhat restricted head movement – in the direction of Spock's still-clipped, curt tones. "You said you would keep me informed. Where is the captain? What is his condition?"

"Relax, Spock," he heard Bones reply, although from his angle, he couldn't see either of them. "He'll be alright. Provided I don't kill him myself for being a damn fool."

There was a pause. Then, "I am perfectly calm, Doctor. As first officer it is merely imperative that I be aware of the captain's status."

"Oh, right, of course, Spock. That was silly of me, but I forget that you don't have any emotions. So. I guess you'll be heading on up to the bridge now? But come to think of it… why didn't you just use the com system again? Was there something else you came down here for, other than to make sure we still had a captain?"

"…If that is all, then I shall return to my duties."

Jim didn't know whether he was annoyed with Bones or relieved. While it was always a pleasure to see Spock, he was kind of a mess just then. Even by his standards. And though he'd never admit to it, now that he was decidedly more familiar with the _intimate_ side of Vulcan nature, he was a bit self-conscious of his hands.

He heard a big, Bones-sounding sigh. "Dammit, Spock, don't be an idiot. Go and check on him. He's awake. Probably eavesdropping, too."

There was a pause. Jim could almost hear the hesitation. Then footsteps. A shadow fell momentarily across his sheets, over his side, and then Spock was standing there. His expression was perfectly neutral as he took in Jim's state of being, gaze moving from his face, to his chest, then down until it stopped at his hands for a moment, before moving back up again.

Smiling was painful and inadvisable. Jim managed a very small, crooked one anyway. But he couldn't keep it up for long.

"My familiarity with medical facilities has been increasing at an exponential rate, relative to my familiarity with you," Spock said.

Moving his face around a lot was as inadvisable as smiling, and difficult, because what didn't hurt was heavily numbed. So all Jim could really manage to say was, "huh".

"I will maintain diligent command of the ship until you are fit for duty again," Spock continued, and in a weird, toneless, withdrawn sort of way it was almost like he was talking to distract himself. "Lieutenant Commander Giotto has apprised me of the situation which led to your injuries. The Irri crew have maintained their refusal to communicate. It is likely we will only be able to obtain cooperation from the one you entered into physical conflict with, provided that your agreement is honored."

"…'Kay," Jim said, with more solemnity than was often associated with an abbreviation typically employed by small children. He was a little surprised when Spock actually kept talking to him, even though his communication skills were clearly not at their peak.

"The geological equipment onboard the _Uwibami_ suffered critical damage. The colony's technicians are confident that they will be able to repair it, however, they have requested that we lend whatever manpower we can to facilitate that repair over the next several days. Given Mr. Scott's current situation in Engineering, it may prove difficult or inadvisable to grant this request. Any decisions on that matter shall be left to your discretion once you have regained competency. We are still awaiting a reply from Starfleet Command."

There was a pause.

"That is all I have to report," he said then, and Jim wondered if he was alright. He looked very blank and robotic. "I shall return to the bridge."

He didn't walk away at first, though. For a moment, he just stood there, continuing to stare at him with a pointedly fixed mask. Then he reached over and very gently lowered his hand on top of Jim's. That was it, that was all he did, and Jim couldn't even feel it properly, because he was all drug-numbed and everything. But Spock, at least, was still on duty and in command, there were still issues to be dealt with and situations to handle, and it was clear that he'd wound himself in very tightly.

So he might as well have thrown his arms around Jim. All things considered, the gesture was roughly equivalent.

"You must endeavor to avoid getting yourself killed in my absence," he said, in a quieter voice than the one he'd been using before. Then he retracted his touch, and turning, left.

In the still and quiet moment which followed, it occurred to Jim that Spock had been worried about him.

Everything about his demeanor had implied that he was upset, in that roundabout, very Spock way, and if he hadn't have been able to guess it beforehand, the last thing he'd said had sealed the deal. The realization filled him with an almost uncomfortable warmth. It also meant that he now felt like a heel. The contrast was kind of weird. On the one hand, knowing that Spock would worry – that struck a note in him that he didn't think he was entirely comfortable acknowledging. But worry was unpleasant, and putting Spock through something unpleasant felt like shit. So he also felt kind of guilty at feeling good about knowing that Spock was worried about him.

He was starting to see why Vulcans had given emotions up as a bad idea. Not that he was going to be subscribing to Surakian principals any time soon, but still. Score one point for the Vulcans.

Unfortunately, awkward and convoluted though his feelings may have been, he wasn't given much else to focus on for the next hour, until Bones finally relented and took the stupid machine off of his head. He was very reluctantly cleared for duty, with strict orders to 'take it easy' and the warning that if he got himself injured again, he'd be bolted to a medical bed for an indefinite period of time. The Irri leader was also on the swift path to recovery, if the fact that he was sitting up was any indication. Bones hadn't been able to figure out a whole lot of his physiology yet, so they were sort of playing it by ear with him. The security guard who'd been stationed to watch over him looked epically bored, however, and Jim couldn't say he blamed her.

Jim regarded his former adversary carefully as he considered whether he should question him now, or give him more of a chance to recover.

Well. Patience was a virtue, but he was curious.

"So," he said, moving across the medical bay, and experimentally flexing his bruised hands as he walked. Not as bad as when he'd been hit by the chair, at least. The bruises would probably be gone soon, too, modern medicine being what it was. "You wanna tell me your name now?" He'd start small.

"Chlaloon'ch'Pahalgren-roon," the Irri replied without hesitation, but with, of course, another vertical blink. Jim was starting to think it was a sign of deference, or agreement, since he'd only done the horizontal blink when he was trying to pick a fight.

"Damn, that's a lot of name. You got a problem with me just calling you Roon?" he asked. Anything else would probably be too much of a mouthful for him just then.

"No," Roon replied frankly. His breathing was still just a bit wheezy. "It is my preference, Captain Kirk."

"Good to know," Jim said in his best 'I'm-a-nice-guy' voice. He walked over so that he was standing relatively close to Roon's bed, but hopefully not in a threatening kind of way. "So, Roon, are you alright? We don't know a lot about your species, so if there's anything wrong you'll probably have to tell us."

Roon cocked his head, and then made a motion which made Jim think he was running tongue across his teeth. "I am without energy," he said. "But I will live, and be stronger. Wiser as well." As he said the last part, his expression turned somewhat speculative, and Jim guessed he was taking a moment to wrap his head around getting beat by an unarmed guy who came up to his chin.

"Also good to know," Jim decided. "So is there a limit on what I get to ask you here, or can I just fire away?" He was trying to keep this from seeming too much like an interrogation. There was a good chance these people were just in some kind of horrific mess, after all, and he found that some of the cold anger he'd initially felt for the pirates preying on Vulcan II had been tempered by circumstances.

"My words are yours," Roon replied. Jim took it to mean that he could ask whatever he wanted.

"How did you gain access to the Klingon vessels?" he asked, cutting straight to the chase. He still kept the nice-and-friendly tone to his voice, though.

"I do not know this word 'Klingon'," Roon replied. "But our vessels came to us from the sky. We set our sirens to shout them down when our furthest-seeing eyes caught them."

If Jim had to guess, he'd say that the universal translator was having a hell of a time with the Irri's language. A nuclear-stage civilization ought to have terms like 'telescope', but if it were a particularly romantic or complex way of speaking, that would probably explain the odd break-down. "Sirens?" Jim asked, suspecting that the term wasn't quite matching up to the true meaning.

Roon nodded. "We built them when we heard the voices from the sky, to shout back at them. They shouted so loudly that the vessels came loose and fell into our waters."

Okay. So. The Irri had managed to construct a device which caused ships to fall out of their orbit. That was good to know, although it still didn't explain what two Klingon ships had been doing in their orbit in the first place.

"You shot down the ships… and then flew them into space?" Jim asked, a little impressed despite himself. It was odd, though. Most recorded cases of pre-warp civilizations who got their hands on advanced technology had them keeping it on their world, taking it apart and figuring out how it worked. As far as he knew nobody had ever just turned around and flown an alien ship back off their planet.

"Yes," Roon replied. "We wished to see upward, into the black sky. It took us weeks to learn how to make the vessels fly again."

_Weeks?_

…Holy shit. Weeks. Unless he was lying, and going off of his gut he'd say he wasn't. Jim found he was impressed again, even though this was looking more and more like a diplomat's worst wake-up-in-a-cold-sweat nightmare. He didn't think they were entirely comfortable with the systems yet, though, going off of their less-than-stellar aim in the firefight, and the fact that they hadn't ranged very far from their homeworld. But still. Damn.

"So you wanted to explore."

A blink, and then a nod, confirming his statement.

"Then why did you attack our cargo ship?" he asked.

"We wished to have another vessel," Roon replied. "We saw the ships come and go from the dry world. When we learned how to make the burning lights strike, we thought to fight and claim one. But we did not think wisely. When the vessel was beaten, we had no way to claim it in the black sky."

Translation: they shot at the_ Uwibami _but, afterwards, didn't know their tractor beams systems could tow it back to their planet, and so just kind of drifted alongside it. Jim could see where this was going. "Let me guess – after you shot at the ship, you suddenly found your cargo hold full of equipment and supplies?"

When the attacking vessels hadn't destroyed the _Uwibami_, the crew, frightened, had likely – and not unreasonably – assumed they were being pirated, and beamed over their vessel's cargo in the hopes of maybe not getting horribly killed. To their eyes it would have seemed like that was what was wanted from them, especially if the Klingon ships had their shields down. Jim could only assume they must have been. Maybe the Irri had taken a while to figure out those systems, too?

"Yes," Roon agreed. "We were astounded."

"I'll bet. And then you figured out that if you attacked the cargo ship, it would happen again?" Jim reasoned.

"It did. But the second time the small vessel was hit by burning lights. We saw the 'shield' that flickered around the 'cargo ship' and learned how to make it flicker around our own vessels. We thought it would make us strong. Our weapons were stronger than theirs – but not yours."

"No," Jim agreed. "They wouldn't be." That really _was_ impressive. It was also, as he'd initially assessed, a Prime Directive shitstorm. He sighed, running a hand along the back of his head. These guys had no _idea_ how lucky they were that the _Enterprise_ had found them first, and not, say, more Klingons. Although he supposed he shouldn't feel too sympathetic towards them, since even if the repeated piracy had been mostly accidental, they'd still fully intended to shoot down and steal a cargo ship. They just hadn't figured out the transporter systems or tractor beam – thankfully.

"Alright," he said. "So if you were exploring, why didn't you make any attempt to land on the 'dry world', or contact the people there?"

Roon blinked again. "We feared that if we did so, they would be able to take our vessels from us. We thought they were the ones who built them."

Well, Jim supposed, if they hadn't gone very far, it probably would have seemed reasonable to assume that the first space-faring, intelligent species they came across was the same as the ones they'd shot down. And in a way he was right – they were most certainly going to have the ships taken away from them. But the worst of the damage would have already been done, especially if they'd started figuring out how to duplicate the technology they'd seen.

"They are not, are they?" Roon asked him, the first question of his own that he'd voiced. "They are like you. Federation. You call the ones we brought down, with the ribcage-heads, Klingon."

"Yup," Jim agreed.

"All the Klingon died in the water when their ships fell," the Irri said.

"That's lucky for you," Jim replied. "They're physically stronger than we are." If the society held physical strength in some kind of esteem, then definitely, the Klingons would have run roughshod over them if they hadn't drowned.

Roon's expression turned to one of concern, his brows drawing together. "They are you masters?" he asked.

Jim snorted. "Not a chance," he said. "More often they're our enemies, although we've got something of an uneasy truce with them right now."

"Ah," said Roon. "Enemies. Yes, I understand this. We have many enemies too. Our weapons are stronger, or weaker. Our people are stronger, or weaker. We throw fire at one another, and it leaves behind plague. We would rather die than let them master us, and they would rather die than be mastered. So it creates fields of death and grey flower clouds." He leaned forward, then, proving that he'd gotten more of his energy back. It was still a very conservative level of motion, but more eager than anything else Jim had seen him do. "The gifts from the 'cargo ship' have helped us. There is breath to clear the soil and tools that help to heal. We need these things. We need _more_ of these things, to stop from dying."

A grim sort of feeling settled over Jim at this revelation. What Roon was talking about sounded a lot like nuclear war. He could see how the colony's equipment would seem like a godsend to them – in addition to a lot of gauges and monitoring systems, much of it was designed for making the more unruly parts of Vulcan II more inhabitable. If their world was suffering from nuclear radiation poisoning, it would help. Not _entirely_, but enough to make a difference. Not to mention the medical supplies.

He was starting to think that he should get someone a little more familiar with linguistics involved in this conversation, though. Just on the off chance that he was somehow misinterpreting a lot of this. He was starting to hope that he was.

"Roon," he said. "If I ask someone else to come here and talk to you, will you answer their questions?"

The Irri blinked his 'friendly' blink at him again. "Yes," he said. "If that is your will."

…Huh. Something a little bit creepy about that sentence, although he couldn't quite put his finger on it.

Then again, 'eerie' could come up a lot in interspecies conversations, and usually without meaning to. He'd heard more than a few crewmembers mention that they found it uncomfortable to talk to Spock, for example, because he didn't smile or laugh or wave or… do much of anything, really. Well, in their opinions.

"Okay, wait here a minute," he instructed, and then walked over to the med bay's com system. He called up to the bridge. "Lieutenant Uhura, please page your stand-in and meet me in the medical bay."

There was a pause. Then a rather confused-sounding 'aye, sir'.

Well, she was the best linguist on the ship, even if her specialty was actually subspace signals. Personal issues aside it was the smart choice.

While they waited for the lieutenant to arrive, Jim tried to anticipate what the Federation's reaction to this entire situation would be. The Prime Directive had already been shot to hell. But, if past experiences were any indication, they wouldn't just _leave_ the Irri with information on technology way ahead of their social development. That said, if there really was some kind of a nuclear holocaust going on, then just taking their shit and waving goodbye could spell death for, possibly, the entire planet, or a large portion of it. Which seemed excessively harsh. Not that that was _their_ fault, but then again, the 'hands off' approach had already been shot to hell and back.

"Jim," Bones said, drawing himself out of his thoughts. "This is a medical bay, not a conference room. Can't this at least wait until the man's capable of standing?" he asked, gesturing towards Roon, who was reclining now.

"Are you hearing what he's _saying_, Bones?" Jim asked, his tone very much implying that he couldn't believe the doctor wasn't as eager to find just exactly what was going on as he was. "What were those Klingons doing orbiting a pre-warp civilization's world, anyway? And how many times had they been there for the Irri to catch on and actually _build_ a device to shoot them down?"

Bones sighed. "Jesus, Jim, I don't know," he said. "But it ain't gonna change any between now and whenever he's fully rested."

"If he starts to look worn down, he can rest," Jim assured him. His friend didn't look too happy about it, but clearly he also realized that he wouldn't get any better, either.

"I don't like it," he said bluntly. "But at least it'll keep you where I can see you for a while. If you're head starts hurting again, let me know."

The conversation came to a halt, then, as a somewhat baffled-looking communications officer entered. Her gaze flicked curiously over Roon before it came to rest on the captain and the doctor. Jim approached, and quickly laid out the situation. Her confusion left, but now she was wearing that same vaguely horrified expression which he suspected had graced his own face a time or two in all of this.

"I need you to talk to him," he said. "You know more about how the translator would reinterpret parts of his language. Tell me if I'm right or not."

For a moment she looked a bit anxious at the idea. But then she nodded, and walked with Jim over to where the large Irri was reclined. When they approached, he sat up.

"Roon," he said. "This is Lieutenant Uhura. She's going to ask you a bunch of questions, mostly the same questions I did. I'd like it if you could answer her, but if you need to rest, just say."

He got _two_ blinks that time. Or maybe it was one blink for him, and one for the lieutenant? "I will do this," Roon replied.

Jim glanced at Uhura. "Will you be alright with just him and Ensign…" he glanced at the young security officer, and thought about the crew lists he'd looked over when he was bringing everyone back aboard. Almost had it… "Mercado?"

For whatever reason, the ensign looked inordinately pleased. "Yes, Captain," she confirmed.

"Right. So, will you?" he asked. It wouldn't take a lot for him to assume the guy would make her nervous. He made _him_ a little nervous, and he'd more or less kicked his ass. Even if it had come at the expense of his skull.

After a moment, Uhura shrugged and nodded. "Shouldn't be a problem. Sir," she decided.

"Great, let me know what you find out," he said, and then made to head out.

Bones scowled at him. "Dammit! I thought you were staying to talk to Goliath here some more!"

"Sorry, Bones, can't chat!" Jim replied, not bothering to turn around, but raising a hand in a wave. He heard the disgruntled huff from behind him as he exited the bay, and found himself in his ship's clear, bright corridors.

Clear, bright, and currently mercifully unoccupied corridors. He leaned against the wall just outside the door as a wave of nausea rolled over him. It wasn't the aftereffects of his medical treatment, or his fight that caused it, either. It was the turmoil of this whole situation. If he was right – and, to be honest, he didn't really think he'd been mistaken – what would Starfleet do with this? It had been pretty clear cut when it had just looked like attacks against the colony. None of their missions ever seemed to go just the way they were expected to, and usually, he kind of liked that. But this sort of moral quandary didn't settle well into his system. The worst part was that he didn't know if he was relieved or concerned that, in the end, it wouldn't even be his decision to make.

Because he was the one who'd found it. So for this moment, it was his responsibility.

Not to mention that Prime Directive violations always put everyone under the knife, and he was already being scrutinized as it was. That wasn't really the biggest issue, but it definitely didn't help any of it go down more smoothly.

After a minute, when he'd collected himself, he made his way back up to the bridge. Questioning Roon had satisfied a good deal of his curiosity, and burdened him with a lot of unpleasant information, but now he wanted to know if they'd managed to get anything from the Klingon ships' computer databases. He'd feel better once he was back at his post – more like he controlled some part of the situation.

When the turbolift let him out, the crew turned in his direction. Several then quickly turned back to their posts. A few stared for a little longer. Spock, who had been standing beside the captain's chair, raised an eyebrow at him.

"Dr. McCoy has cleared you?" he said.

"Yup," Jim assured him, heading over. "I wouldn't be here if he hadn't." Well, maybe if he'd managed to escape. But escaping Bones was no small feat.

"Then I shall relinquish command back to you, Captain," Spock said evenly, still tense and reserved, but not as bad as when Jim had seen him earlier.

"Thank you, Mr. Spock," he replied, and just to show that he _could_ now, graced him with a proper smile. It still felt stiff, but at least he could do it.

_Smack_.

Both captain and first officer looked over at the sound of Chekov swatting at Sulu. Clearly, the impact against the fabric of his shirt had been louder than expected. The seventeen-year-old ensign scrambled to get upright properly in his seat again, and Sulu was doing his damndest to pretend nothing had happened. Every eye on the bridge had turned to look at them because of them sound.

Amused more than anything else, Jim walked over to Chekov's station, and then lowered a hand heavily onto his shoulder. The ensign gave an involuntary little jump.

"Something you want to share with the class, Mr. Chekov?" he asked.

"N-no, Keptan, I only needed… to… I fell over?"

"Wobbly seat?" Jim suggested.

"Oh, yes, sir, wery wobbly."

Moving his hand to the back of the chair, he gave it a little shake. It remained utterly stable. Chekov paled.

"A word of advice, Mr. Chekov," Jim said, adopting something of a stage-whisper. "Never take the answer somebody else suggests. It's usually a trick."

Sulu made a sound like he was trying not to laugh.

With a consoling pat for the ensign's shoulder, he moved back, satisfied. He wasn't exactly gossip's biggest _fan_, but he knew what it was good for. The trouble was that he couldn't really afford to let it become too prominent, especially during duty, to the point where the kid at tactical was leaning over to smack his helmsman left and right. So he'd embarrassed Chekov a little, but he hadn't reprimanded him or even given him supreme shit.

He was _hoping_ that discouraged it without making him out to be a complete ass. But he was still pretty new to discipline in all its varied and complicated forms.

"Mr. Spock, what's the situation with the Klingon ships?" he asked, changing gears back into business mode.

Spock updated him efficiently on the progress with the computer systems. Apparently he'd thought along the same lines as Jim, and sent down a few communications officers to help with the process. It was still slow-going, however, and the security team seemed to anticipate that they were going to have to turn it over to the code-breakers at Starfleet Command before they'd get anything out of it.

"Any thoughts on what those Klingon ships would be doing out here to begin with?" Jim asked him quietly after the update.

"There are many possibilities, Captain," Spock replied in the same low tones. "The Irri could possess some resource they are interested in. Given the proximity to Vulcan II and the level of security locking their ships' computers, it is also probable that they were planning some sort of tactical strike against the colony. Neither option is mutually exclusive, either."

"You think it's both?"

"I cannot say. But it does seem possible," Spock concluded.

Jim frowned. The Vulcans, for all that they'd taken a blow, were still seen as an integral part of the Federation. There was a chance the Klingons would see a strike against the colony as a chance to completely knock out a peg, so to speak. "I don't like it," he said, more to himself than to Spock. But Spock heard it anyway.

"I do not find it an agreeable concept, either," he replied, and instantly, Jim remembered that any apprehension he felt would be worse for his first officer. Well, except that he'd suppress it. But suppressing it was hard, so it _was_ worse, unless he was actually successfully suppressing it… oh, forget it, he'd just go with 'it's worse'.

"Well, whatever the hell's going on, we'll figure it out," Jim concluded.

In the meantime, he left Spock to his station and made the executive decision to talk to Scotty, and see who – if anyone – they could spare to help with the repairs of the colony's new geological equipment. This back-and-forth lasted for quite some time, as even Scotty himself seemed to waver between the need to expediently reorganize his ship, and the desire to help the Vulcan colonists. In the end they decided to send a group of six, along with three very competent crewmembers from Maintenance, via shuttlecraft to Vulcan II, to be retrieved either when the work was finished, or, more likely, when the _Enterprise_ was ordered from the system.

They were still hashing out some of the details when Uhura returned to the bridge.

Her expression did not bode well.

Jim decided it was time to call another senior staff meeting. He asked Scotty to head for the conference room, sent for Bones, and then had Spock and Uhura accompany him there. Sulu had the con.

"Alright, lieutenant," he said once they'd gathered. "Spill."

"…Well," Uhura began, running a hand along the back of her head a momentarily straightening her ponytail. "You essentially got it right. From what he told me, they managed to build some sort of device to knock the Klingon ships out of their orbit…" she then proceeded to reiterate pretty much everything he'd figured out himself. It was kind of depressing – he was actually hoping he'd gotten it wrong somewhere along the way. But apparently the lieutenant had also been a bit more thorough and probing in the questions she'd chosen.

"Culturally, they seem to have a strong sense of hierarchy. As near as I can tell they count military strength and weapons capabilities as a separate issue from physical prowess. That was why Chlaloon'ch'Pahalgren-roon would only answer the captain's questions after he'd beaten him in a fight." Jim was impressed that she'd actually spat out his entire name. "According to their social structure, when a person defeats someone else in physical combat, they… ah…" here she seemed to hesitate for just a moment. Then she straightened, took a breath, and folded her arms. "They own them."

There was a moment of dead silence.

"…Well that's kind of awkward," Jim noted.

"'_Awkward?'_ It's slavery!" Uhura replied, clearly annoyed with his flippancy.

"Hey! He didn't know that would happen!" Bones jumped in defensively.

"That's why he shouldn't have done it in the first place!"

"Well how the hell else were we gonna get anything out of them?" the doctor countered. Which was a little funny, because earlier he'd been about ready to yell Jim's ear off about how stupid he'd been to accept Roon's challenge.

"There is no point in arguing over this," Spock pointed out evenly. "What has been done is done. If the captain has authority over the Irri's leader, it would prudent to exercise it until they can be returned to their world."

Jim swallowed, his seemingly careless attitude disguising the fact that he was very disquieted by this little discovery. "It's a cultural misunderstanding," he said, recalling that his last brush with one of those had left him wondering if he was married to Spock. "It's not like I'm going to _keep_ him. I'll go tell him right now if it makes you feel better."

"I know that," Uhura relented. "It's just that it isn't so simple. The Irri have a very important hierarchy. When you beat Chlaloon'ch'Pahalgren-roon you didn't just get _him_, you got everyone _he'd_ beaten, and all of the people _they'd_ beaten. And their wives and children, according to him. You're essentially their clan's leader now, and they won't take Chlaloon'ch'Pahalgren-roon back."

She kept saying his whole name. Which was easier to focus on than the actual concept which she was conveying.

"They don't have much experience with other cultures," she added. "So they think it's like that everywhere. Since you're the captain, they think you own _us_, too, and that now we'll join up together. It happens from time to time in their society, although apparently it's more common these days for different clans to form alliances against common enemies. Their war is very brutal."

"Wait," Scotty said. "Yeh'r sayin' that the captain's like their king now?"

"More like their chief," Uhura corrected. "But pretty much."

Jim shifted. "I still don't see how that's a bigger problem than the one before," he pointed out. "Either way, it's not like I'll be sticking around to lead them. They'll _have_ to find someone else."

Uhura sighed. "It's like this. From what Chlaloon'ch'Pahalgren-roon's told me, you're in charge of about five hundred people now. Those people are allied with nearly a _thousand_ other clans of varying shape and size. All of those clans have different standing amongst one another, and the higher up it goes, the more brutal things get. If you just cut and leave them, their leadership will be in dispute – and from what I understand, that means they'll probably all end up _killed_."

Okay. So that definitely complicated things a little. Jim didn't want to be responsible for the deaths of five hundred people. "Why would they end up killed?" he asked. "Why wouldn't they just be absorbed into one of those other clans?"

"Because their idea of an 'alliance' leaves a lot to be desired," Uhura replied, sounding a little tired as she ran a hand across her brow. "Believe me, Captain, I've been talking to him about this for a while now. It doesn't look good."

Jim thought, feeling a kind of quiet dread at the idea that his impetuousness may have just cost half a thousand people their lives. Or him his, conversely, if he wound up having to strand himself on a pre-warp world in order to keep them from dying.

Okay. Time to find the third option.

"I'll need to talk to him again," he concluded. Not to mention start getting this shit together in a report to Starfleet, so that this whole mess could start getting cleaned up. But there had to be some kind of protocol, something that these 'clans' did if their leader died or was unfit or incapacitated. Right? They couldn't just go around murdering such large portions of their population. Not unless their reproduction rate was exponential.

Which it could be. After all, what the hell did he know?

"If I may accompany you, Captain?" Spock requested. "It is possible that I will be able to offer a different perspective."

"Good idea, Spock," Jim agreed. "I think we could use a little logic right now."

On that note they dispersed, with Scotty heading off to make the final arrangements for the colony aid team, Uhura to return to her station, and Jim and Spock following Bones back to sickbay.

When they entered, Roon greeted them enthusiastically. "Captain Kirk!" He was up and standing, with Ensign Mercado keeping an eye on him, although she didn't look particularly concerned. Maybe because, apart from nearly bashing the captain's brain in, he'd been well-behaved.

Jim replied with a smile and a nod of acknowledgement, and then his eyes widened marginally when the tall Irri took a step towards him, reached out, and grabbed both his shoulders. Ensign Mercado had drawn her phaser, on reflex, but it clearly wasn't intended to be an aggressive move. It was more like the guy planned to hug him.

And then five pale, narrow fingers closed around Roon's shoulder. His eyes rolled back into his head and he slumped to the ground with an audible 'thump'.

Jim gaped.

He looked from the fallen Irri, to his first officer, and then back again.

"…Spock?" he asked, confused.

Spock gave him a look of polite innocence.

"My apologies, Captain," he said. "I thought he was moving to assault you."

In unison, everyone looked back down at Roon as he lay in a heap on the floor of the medical bay.

"…Well," Bones said at length. "At least we know they're susceptible to Vulcan nerve-pinches now."

---

**Author's Note:** Sorry for the delay! I wasn't able to get to an internet access until really late. Fortunately, though, I was still _writing_ on my laptop even if I wasn't uploading, so I decided to just keep going until I could update and give you guys an extra-long chapter. I hope that helps balance it out a little. Special apologies to the self-proclaimed 'addict' reviewers.

Also, sorry about the Nurse Chapel mix-up. I only saw the new film once, and I didn't recall the time she was mentioned – so maybe just assume she had an older sister/cousin/coincidentally-named predecessor onboard? Anyway, this chapter was all about Captain!Kirk, so not as much romantic interaction. Hopefully it was still good. I think Spock and Roon are going to be good friends now!


	22. Chapter 22

"You know, Spock, that makes it a little tricky to ask him questions."

"I am aware of the difficulties."

"Dammit, you two, if you're just gonna stand there and not help me get him onto a medical bed, then you can leave," Bones grumbled at them, before leaning over to examine Roon and attempt to roll him over. Taking pity on both of them, Jim bent to help, but his efforts proved largely unnecessary as at the same time Spock unceremoniously hefted the large Irri and essentially dumped him onto the nearest bed.

Bones was grumbling as he retrieved his tricorder. "And what're you going to do if this means that _you're_ his 'king' now?" he asked Spock, running his scans.

Crap. Jim hadn't thought of that. He glanced uncomfortably over at his first officer, but Spock just seemed like his usual, utterly nonplussed self.

"The issue of the Irri's leadership will be a problem regardless of whether it is the captain's or my own. However, it seems more likely that I would be required to defeat the captain in unarmed combat in order to claim such a role," Spock reasoned. "He is the one who is, as they say, 'holding the ball'."

Bones gave him a disapproving look. "Right. Good thinking, Spock. Let's continue with our successful history of making cultural assumptions about these people," he muttered sarcastically as he exchanged his tricorder for a hypospray, and then injected its contents into Roon's neck. Several moments later the Irri's eyelids fluttered in alternating disorientation, and he blinked himself awake.

"I… fell?" he wondered in obvious perplexity.

"Sure," Jim said. "We'll go with that." He darted a gaze over at Spock, who once again, was the very picture of neutrality and innocence. 'Who? Me? Freak out on an alien for trying to hug my captain? Don't be illogical.'

He was starting to think that 'logic' actually _was_ the Vulcan word for bullshit.

Roon seemed to cotton on to the fact that he'd been intentionally dropped like a bag of rocks, however, if the way that he looked at Spock and then gave a few rapid, vertical blinks was any indication. Then again, he may have just picked up on the unrepentant waves of animosity that were rolling towards him, despite Spock's perfectly trained posture and expression.

Jim was starting to think it had actually been a _bad_ idea to bring his first officer along. But it was too late to change his mind now, and he wasn't going to send Spock away with a slap on the wrist for, of all things, overreacting. So instead he just addressed Roon, and decided to pretend nothing much had happened.

"How are you feeling?" he asked.

Roon blinked at him, now. "My neck hurts," he replied honestly.

Jim winced sympathetically. "Yeah. Uh, that can happen onboard this ship. Randomly and for no reason. Anyway, it should wear off in a minute or two." Assuming, of course, that his own lingering twinges hadn't been pre-numbed by the cold of Delta Vega. He cleared his throat. "So… Lieutenant Uhura told me some interesting things."

How exactly was the best way to approach the question 'do I own you and about five hundred other people now?' The diplomatic course he'd taken at the academy hadn't exactly covered it. It _had_ taught him how to drink a lot of horrible beverages and eat a lot of disgusting food while pretending to like it, though. That had been a fun week.

There was an uncomfortable pause as Jim tried to find a sequence of words that wasn't either too offensive, too confusing, or too vague.

Maybe the straight-forward approach would be best.

"When I beat you in that fight, did that make me… pretty much… _in charge_ of you and your people?" he asked.

"Yes," Roon replied, without even missing a beat. "My words are yours, as is the stomach you tore them from. My hands are yours, my honour is yours, my brothers, my wives, my children, my homes, and all that is theirs, is yours. Your strength is greater than mine." He concluded this with another blink for good measure. "I am fortunate."

"…Huh." Cultural discrepancies abounded. Jim couldn't say he'd ever be able to declare himself on par with property and then follow it up with 'I am fortunate'. But he supposed that in a society which still practiced a form of people-ownership, sucking up was a necessary survival skill. "Okay. That's going to be a problem," he admitted honestly.

Roon frowned, leaning towards him a little. "Many saw your greater strength. There will be no doubts," he replied, almost reassuringly.

Jim wondered what to make of it. The Irri wasn't reacting to him with any fear, such as he'd seen when they'd first fired on the ships, and yet, he was obviously not in a good position. His people were now under the command of an alien captain whom he'd only had little more than a single conversation with. He'd been stripped of his position of leadership. Yet he seemed to almost _like_ Jim. It was a little spooky – he would have felt more comfortable if he'd gotten some kind of defiance or resentment from this whole thing.

"See, the problem, Roon, is that my people don't have that kind of 'ownership' over other sentient beings," he explained, folding his arms and keeping in mind that the idea of _not_ owning other people was probably much stranger for the Irri than the reverse. "It's against our laws."

The poor guy just looked confused. "…I do not understand," he admitted, the sentiment perfectly mirroring his expression.

Thus began about half an hour of Jim trying to convey the concept of sentient rights, the difference between command and ownership, and, ultimately, also trying to verify that they really _were_ talking about ownership here, and not just leadership. Inevitably he found himself getting onto the subject of the Federation's moral outline in his effort to explain himself. Between alien concepts, linguistic hiccoughs, and the fact that individuality wasn't precisely the _easiest_ idea to get across in a military setting, it easily qualified as one of the most bizarre conversations of his life. He tried throwing a few metaphors out there, but none of them seemed to survive translation very well.

Roon just wasn't buying what he was selling. "You are strongest," he insisted. "We are weaker."

A lightbulb went off in Jim's head. "But I'm not," he said, turning towards Spock for a moment. "Mr. Spock here is more than capable of beating me senseless. He's physically stronger than I am. About three times stronger, to be exact. That doesn't make him the captain, and he definitely doesn't own everyone because of it." Ha! There, that ought to do it. In a leadership-of-the-strongest civilization, Spock as second-in-command wouldn't make any sense.

"He has let you beat him," Roon decided, looking as though he were convinced that they were still on the same page, and Jim was just being thick. "Strength is only strength when it is used. He wishes you to master him – I know of _this_ thing. It is obvious."

Why did Jim get the sneaking suspicion that they weren't talking about command structures anymore? It was probably the tone of voice which the Irri had adopted. Jim didn't know if it was just his own perspective on his and Spock's relationship coming into play, or if the guy actually _meant_ to say 'duh, that's because he wants to screw you', but either way he felt vaguely embarrassed now. Also, for one moment, a little hyper-aware of Spock's physical presence in the room with him.

He forcibly shoved that aside. Not the time.

"Well," he said, deciding to give up on the 'we are different' concept for now and just look for in-context solutions. "No offence to your people, but I don't want to be your leader_. I_ didn't challenge you, remember, _you_ challenged _me_, so can't I choose to, you know, back out?"

Roon gave him a funny look. "No," he said, as if it should be obvious. "A challenge accepted is a challenge made. It is the same thing." Then he smiled and, almost tentatively, blinked his rarer, horizontal blink again. "But if you wish me to master you, we could fight again."

Huh. The way the guy said that led Jim to believe that he was being flirted with.

Well, he couldn't say he blamed him, it was pretty hard _not_ to flirt with Jim. Hell, Spock did it, and he was a Vulcan. Not that he'd consider taking Roon up on it – even without his 'courtship' situation, it was obviously a bad idea for any number of reasons. But it did present an interesting possible solution. "So, wait, if we fight again and you beat me – you get to be leader again?" he clarified.

"Yes," Roon confirmed. "You would have to loose on purpose. I could not beat you otherwise, you are too fast. But then I would master you, and all you master."

_Definitely_ flirting. Jim was getting a good once-over now.

"Captain," Spock said, a little sharply, moving closer to him and then dropping his voice to a lower, quieter tone. "I do not believe this is an advisable course of action. In the event of your defeat, the Irri would presume to command the _Enterprise_ and her crew. They may become violent or aggressive when this is shown to be untrue, resulting in conflict."

Thinking, Kirk pulled Spock with him a little further ways away, to be certain Roon didn't overhear.

He wasn't exactly subtle about it, nor trying to be, but he was a little surprised when the Irri figured out his intentions and obligingly covered his ears with his hands.

…Huh.

He shook his head a little, and then addressed his first officer. "If we did it at the last possible moment, Spock, before we sent them back to their world, we could establish Roon as their leader again, and then just leave. It's not like they'd be able to stop us," he reasoned. "And it would keep them from having a disputed leadership. They might feel cheated, but that's better than all of them getting _killed_."

Spock considered it. "Perhaps," he said. "But it would still be logical to try and pursue other means of re-establishing their former hierarchy."

"I will," Jim assured him. "Trust me, I don't want to get my ass kicked again. But I'm not going to throw a good solution away, either."

Over by Roon, Bones cleared his throat. "Jim?" he said, drawing both captain and first officer out of their conversational bubble. "If I can suggest, why don't you try asking him what happens when one of their leaders dies?"

"…Harsh, Bones."

The doctor rolled his eyes. "I've got a trick or two in my medical bag that could convincingly simulate death. Are you followin' me now?"

Jim shot him a cocky grin. He'd gotten it straightaway, but he couldn't resist the opportunity to mess with him a little. "Okay, I'll ask," he said, and then moved so that he was closer to Roon again. The Irri lowered his hands from his ears when he came up, Spock not far behind him.

"Roon," he said. "Just out of curiosity, who would be the 'leader' if I died?"

The Irri blinked at him again. "If you die in a challenge, the challenger will master us," he said, and his tone of voice implied that he was starting to think Jim was, for all his 'strength', a bit slow in the head. "If you die by time, then you will choose who is to be master afterwards. If you die by an enemy's weapon, then we are all dead."

That was thoroughly unhelpful. "What if I get _sick_ and die?" he asked, holding out a little hope.

"Then I will fight the one you beat to claim your Federation clan," Roon replied. "The strongest will lead." Looking a little concerned, he moved forward a bit. "Do you suffer sickness, Captain Kirk?"

Jim exchanged a glance with Bones and Spock.

"I'll get back to you on that front," he replied. Then he gestured for the CMO and his first officer to follow him away again. Roon, once more, helpfully decided to cover his ears for good measure. Jim didn't know if that was endearing or a little freaky. Maybe both. "Thoughts?" he asked, once they were a safe ways away.

"As much as you like to think of yourself as a human punching-bag, Jim, I say we fake your death and let someone else get the tar beat out of them instead. Then we can just send 'em back to their world, like you planned," Bones suggested.

"Surprisingly, Doctor McCoy's plan is sound," Spock said, earning himself a glare. "It would also make the scenario more convincing to the other Irri, as opposed to having you inexplicably lose a match which you won the first time."

"I don't think that'd be an issue for them," Bones pointed out. "King Kong over there seems to think that there's not much wrong with throwing a fight you don't want to win."

"Does that even make sense?" Jim asked. "If this is a whole master-and-slave idea, why is he being so… _friendly_ about it?" he wondered.

Bones shrugged. Spock seemed to have an idea about it, though. "It is entirely possible that their culture simply does not share the human trait of finding such concepts distasteful. Just as humans do not share the Vulcan philosophy of emotional suppression – it would appear, based on what you and lieutenant Uhura have gathered, that if an Irri finds the idea of another's 'mastery' unacceptable, then they regard them as an enemy, regardless of their perceived strength or weakness."

"This is all very fascinating," Bones said. "But I'm thinking we should get Starfleet on the horn and have them start sendin' cultural experts out here. You know. People whose _job_ this kinda thing actually is," he pointed out.

After a moment, Jim forced himself to relent some of his curiosity. "You're right, Bones," he agreed. "I guess I'd better start filling out the report and request forms." Sonovabitch. "It's not like we're going anywhere until we hear back from them, either way."

"In that case, Captain, I will return to the bridge, and alert you as soon as there is any response," Spock said evenly.

With a somewhat forlorn nod Jim let him go, wishing that _he_ was returning to the bridge, and not to his desk. He wondered if it would be considered inappropriate to have them move his desk to the bridge. When you really thought about it, why not? Everybody else had a proper work station up there. Although he supposed it would look a little ridiculous when enemy vessels hailed them. And it meant that while he _was_ on the bridge, he actually had a damn good excuse to _not_ do paperwork, so yeah. Maybe it was better that way.

Still, this was a pretty messy situation. He had a feeling he'd be using a lot of the forms with the bright red text at the top of them, and marking everything 'priority'. Lieutenant Uhura was going to have her hands full with all of this shit, too.

With a farewell nod to Bones and Roon, Jim followed Spock from sickbay, and then diverted himself down the corridor to get to work.

He'd been at it for about thirty minutes when the buzzer for his door went off.

"It's open," he said. Surprisingly – or perhaps not – priority alert forms were much quicker to fill out than the usual ones. He was just about done when the door slid open, and so he let himself keep his focus for a moment to fill out the last line before he looked up.

Spock was regarding him politely, standing just inside the room. "We received a reply from Starfleet Command," he said. "The U.S.S. _Nelson_ will be rendezvousing with us. At their present course and speed, it should take them two days to arrive."

"Good," Jim said, although in truth he was just the tiniest bit apprehensive. In his experience, other Starfleet captains – the ones who'd taken _years_ to climb through the ranks, as was usually required – were not terribly impressed with him. But at least there'd be another set of hands, so they'd have options with regards to investigating the situation at the Irri homeworld, and trying to work out what exactly the Klingons had been up to. "Sit down, Spock. I've got to send these off to communications for Uhura, but I think you're about up for a break, aren't you?"

"I am," Spock agreed. Even given the maelstrom that was going on, Jim was glad, because for the moment there was precious little they could do about their situation. It was a waiting and planning game at this point – or at least, it was for the two of them. His first officer took a few steps forward, and slid quietly into the chair across from him.

"How's your meditation going?" Jim asked, watching him out of the corner of his eye as his priority reports were sent zipping through the ship's computer systems and up to the bridge.

"I have been experimenting a great deal with it," Spock replied, some of his rigidity easing away, especially once Jim closed down his computer console. "I had not considered it, before we returned, but using the ship as a focus point for my meditation provides an interesting experience."

"The _Enterprise?_" Jim asked, a little surprised. Spock inclined his head.

"Yes," he replied. "I am more familiar with this ship than I am with many other locations. The concept was presented to me when I accompanied yourself and Mr. Scott on the shuttle back for our preliminary inspection. Your inherently positive reactions upon our return gave me pause to reconsider the necessity of using a planet, and not simply a setting, as a focal point."

Jim listened with interest as Spock elaborated on the pros and cons of trying to use the ship in his meditation. According to him, it was, all in all, a pretty successful venture, but only a short-term solution. Well, short-term by Vulcan standards.

"The _Enterprise_ will not likely outlast my lifespan," he explained. "I cannot, therefore, use it exclusively, or else I will find myself in a detrimental position when it is taken out of commission."

"I guess so," Jim said thoughtfully, noticing that the conversation was beginning to draw to something of a close. Frowning a little, he turned in his seat, and reaching under his desk, retrieved the chessboard.

Spock's eyes lit up. Jim felt something inside of him give a happy little jump in response.

"Rematch?" he asked, sliding the board onto the desk, and with a swift inclination of his head, Spock quickly set about lining up his pieces. The captain followed suit. They were fairly quiet for the first half of the game, lost in the silent war of black and white squares and regal, carved little soldiers. But unlike in their first game, the silence did not last.

"I must confess," Spock said at length, drawing Jim's attention away from the corner of the board he was contemplating. "This situation with the Irri intrigues me. I have not heard of one like it before."

Understanding, Jim nodded. "I know what you mean," he said. "It's a pretty huge mess."

"Indeed," his first officer concurred, dark eyes following his motions as he decided on his move. "It will be interesting to see what comes of it."

"…Interesting?" Jim asked, glancing at him, keeping half a mind on the game and letting the other half drift to their current mission. "I think it's more kind of horrifying."

Spock gave him an inquisitive look. And somehow, that one, simple expression managed to slowly pull an admission from Jim. He kept his eyes mostly on the board as he began to talk, expressing his concerns over what would happen to the Irri, over how Starfleet Command might react to this situation. Before he knew it he was voicing fears he hadn't even been completely aware of until they slid past his lips, about what might happen to a pre-warp civilization in this position, and all the unpleasant consequences which might reach them from the Federation because of it. After all, the Prime Directive was strictly upheld, but without it, the Irri might actually have had a shot at using the stolen technology to fix their planet. Now, everything was up in the air. Left to Starfleet's hands.

"Jim," Spock said at last, looking at him from over his Rook's perilous situation. "The Prime Directive was designed by the Federation as a mean of protecting species who would be greatly susceptible to manipulation from more technologically advanced cultures. It brings the Federation no technical benefits. Great strides have been made during many diplomatic discussions to ensure that not only do _we_ follow the Prime Directive, but that even our enemies are compelled to. Its function is strictly moral and ethical, finding its roots in the philosophies of early Vulcan explorers, and its further definition in contact with species such as humanity," he said, telling Jim things he already knew. But he was going somewhere with this, that much was obvious. "It is a preventative measure, designed to protect cultures in their developmental infancy. The reason it exists is to benefit people such as the Irri. Given that information, it would be illogical to assume that the Federation would proceed in a manner which would bring the Irri harm, simply because the incident itself is unprecedented."

Jim decided that was Spock's very roundabout way of saying that he needed to have a little more faith in Starfleet and the Federation to not do a sudden one-eighty on their principals.

He supposed he had a point, even as he lost his Rook. Which was actually good news. His first officer hadn't noticed his little trap yet.

"I'm not saying they'll decide to suddenly murder all of the Irri because the Prime Directive was violated," Jim replied. "But if they _are_ going through a nuclear war, then there's a good chance its ripping their planet apart. What if the Federation decides to just leave them to it? That it's part of their 'natural development' if they destroy themselves?" he countered, making a move that would, most probably, look reckless and dangerous and ill-thought-out to his first officer.

Spock raised an eyebrow at him. "Unlikely," he said. "Now that the Irri have gained access to advanced technology, the probability of their having integrated some of it into their existing weapons systems is high. The Federation would not allow them to damage themselves with such weapons." Pale fingers decisively closed around the smooth darkness of a pawn as he moved it. "In a way, it is perhaps fortunate for them. On their own they may well have destroyed themselves. But now it is probable that we will intervene, and steps will be taken to prevent this."

Jim hadn't considered it like that before. He supposed it was because he wasn't used to thinking of the intervention of authority as a _good_ thing. His next move was made hastily, causing Spock to glance at him again, as if he suspected that his captain wasn't playing attention to the game. "That's assuming they actually _did_ integrate any of this technology into their own," he pointed out. "As far as we know, they just figured out how the ships worked and then took off. It's possible that they just haven't thought in terms of integrating what they've found with their existing knowledge." He was pretty certain he was going to win this match, which ought to be interesting for Spock once he figured it out.

"Perhaps. But there is a certain mentality towards technology which is required in order for species' to gain advancement. If they were disinclined to incorporate new knowledge with past discoveries, I do not believe they would have achieved nuclear capabilities," his first officer pointed out, and then, looking at the board, narrowed his eyes a little in suspicion.

Jim waited patiently for him to decide upon his move. "You've got a point," he conceded. "On the other hand, there are plenty of different ways for people to think. Like Bones said, it's probably not a good idea to make a lot of assumptions."

A moment ticked by. Spock made a move that threw a bit of a wrench into Jim's plans, though not a very large one. Still. He'd probably end up losing that Knight soon. He found that he had an instinctive distaste for sacrificing his pieces.

"Some assumptions must be made, at least until they are disproven, if only for the purpose of facilitating communication," Spock replied reasonably. "While it is true that not all ends are reached by the same means, it is also true that the most straight-forward path will be the likeliest one taken."

"Sure," Jim conceded. "But the thing about different ways of thinking is that sometimes you just don't see the paths that other people do."

Check mate.

Spock's eyebrows rose as he realized what had snuck up upon him.

"…I believe you have you made a good case for your argument," he conceded, his dark eyes locking onto him with something he finally recognized. Not desire or amusement or affection.

Respect.

It took him a moment to come down off of the cloud that sent him up to.

"I usually do," he agreed eventually, smiling wide and leaning forward across the board. Spock did not move either backwards or forwards, but stayed where he was, betraying very little of himself as their lips touched.

It was an odd kiss for Jim, because it was neither a prelude to further passions nor a mere casual gesture of affection. It was deep and warm, but lacking the edge of lustful intent, because both of them knew it wouldn't be leading there. Yet it still caused his pulse to quicken and his skin to tingle pleasantly before, after a fairly long moment, they pulled apart.

When their mouths disconnected, Spock surprised Jim by inclining his head slightly, so that their foreheads touched for a still, easy moment. The body heat which spread along his skull was pleasant, and after a second, an equally pleasant, slightly odd little buzz accompanied it.

Spock snapped back. For a moment, Jim could have sworn he was wearing an expression that would best be translated as 'oops'.

A suspicion formed. Jim gave his first officer an assessing look. "Did you just try and read my mind?" he asked.

If anything, Spock looked very vaguely embarrassed. "I was not monitoring our contact carefully enough. It was unintentional," he explained.

"Huh," Jim said, sitting back a little. "I thought you could only do that with your fingers."

"Melding requires the use of my hands," Spock explained, straightening a bit and moving to put the chess pieces away. "But there can be an exchange of certain impressions, particularly between compatible individuals, through almost any level of touch. Ordinarily I can prevent it, in much the same manner that you might hold your breath."

Jim considered this.

"Does that mean that the entire time we were having hot sex you were holding your breath?" he asked. That didn't sound like a lot of fun. One of the pawns Spock was holding clattered unceremoniously back onto the desk.

His first officer retrieved it again, his gaze darting briefly in his direction before moving back to the task at hand. "…No," he admitted. "Such impressions are very vague, however. You likely did not notice their presence while… distracted."

What, he'd actually managed to _miss_ _out_ on something while they were going at it? That was kind of disappointing.

"Damn," he said. "That's a shame. If only we had sex _again_ – maybe I'd get a chance to appreciate them." He let out a gusty sigh, and then made a good effort to look suitably forlorn.

Spock paused, and gave him a look which said that Jim had somehow managed to surprise him again. He returned it with equal perplexity, not seeing how his angling for sex would be a real shocker at this point. "You are not offended?" his first officer asked.

Oh. It was some of _this_ business.

"Why would I be offended?" he replied. "I can't hold my breath and have sex at the same time either." Besides which, any 'impressions' his first officer got off of him, given the circumstances, would have probably consisted of a whole lot of arousal. It wasn't exactly like that would have been a deep dark secret while they were rolling around naked together anyway.

"No, I do not suppose you could," Spock conceded, although he still looked a little hesitant about the whole thing.

Jim extended his hand towards him, recalling his own hesitance that morning, and grinned as their fingers met. Then he blinked, and looked down at their joined skin, frowning a little as he considered the sensation trailing up to him. It wasn't all that different from what he'd felt when their foreheads had touched just a moment ago.

Considering, he ran his fingertips along the length of Spock's as he wondered if his first officer had been sneaking little peaks at his thoughts every time they did this. Almost as soon as his touch drifted, the pale hand touching his pulled away. He looked over in surprise as Spock clasped it by his side, stiffening a little in his chair.

"That is an erotic gesture," he explained, sounding only very slightly strained.

Jim beamed at him. "I'll keep that in mind," he said unapologetically. Vulcans seemed to do a lot of sexy things with their hands. He wondered how many he could discover by 'accident' that he didn't already know. "So, do you get any 'impressions' when we do that?" he asked plainly.

"Yes," Spock replied after a moment. "Very vaguely. It is the same feeling you experience. With another Vulcan, such experiences would be more potent, because of the dual telepathy, but you and I still produce them to a degree."

There was an awkward pause.

Jim cleared his throat. "Spock," he said. "I'm just going to guess that you said that because you were in an educational mood, and not because you wanted to imply that I wasn't very stimulating for you." Holy _hell_, sometimes the things that came flying out of his first officer's mouth were like _knives_.

Spock froze.

"…That would be an astute assessment on your part," he said.

"Good to know."

"You would be in error to believe that I do not find you stimulating."

"I'm glad to hear it."

"Your lack of telepathy is unimportant. I am more than capable of compensating for you, given my own extensive abilities."

"..."

"…Why are you agitated?"

"…"

"…I am familiar with the meaning of that hand gesture," Spock informed him, as Jim flipped him the bird.

"I assumed you would be," he replied, moving from the desk and turning to stalk out of his own quarters. Finding something to distract himself with seemed like a good idea. He knew Spock didn't really _mean_ anything by what he was saying. He probably didn't even realize that he was being a condescending asshole. But he still was, and Jim wasn't used to having his validity as a romantic partner get called into question while he was in the initial stages of an abstinent relationship.

Not any part of that whole deal. At all.

"Jim," Spock said. "I assure you, it is not an issue. Your mind is the important part of the equation for me, not your ability to assess the minds of others."

"Except that it makes our interactions less 'potent'," Jim pointed out. But he was already running out of angry steam, and switching gears, warring between overriding it all with cockiness or just letting it go as one big, unintended cultural miscommunication. There had been a lot of those today, after all.

Spock looked at him. Then, to his surprise, he actually gave a little half-shrug. "There are compensations," he said. "We are able to share such gestures frequently, without suffering undue distraction. Touching you is a less restrained process because of this, as in-depth telepathic contact requires a more determined effort on my part. Additionally, you are able to offer gestures of… affection which, I will admit, appease some of my more human inclinations. It is not in any way disagreeable to me."

Part of him couldn't help but wonder if Spock was sugar-coating a little.

His first officer then inclined his head slightly. "You do not find my telepathy invasive and distasteful," he noted. "It would not be unprecedented for this to be different. Yet in your case, it does not disturb you, as you have demonstrated by your reactions to it. This is a factor which allows for our current interactions to exist as they do," he reasoned, moving so that he was standing a little closer. "The reverse is true as well. I am unconcerned by your lack of telepathy."

It was hard to stay insulted when he was being so straight-forward about it.

"It would have been highly illogical of me to seek companionship with a human if this were otherwise," he then added.

Jim sighed, and then shook his head at him, following it up with an accepting grin. "Somehow, I don't think this counts as one of your more 'logical' decisions in life, Spock," he pointed out, relaxing. Then he cleared his throat as his first officer merely raised an eyebrow at him, his expression implying that he contended that assessment. "Sorry. I think I'm just a little high-strung with everything going on."

"Your apologies are not required," Spock said. "It was remiss of me to forget that you derive a great deal of pride from your ability to be stimulating."

He got the distinct impression that he was being teased.

**---**

**Author's Note:** I'll admit, I like it when they debate with one another.

Alright, so, since somebody asked me what my favourite episode of TOS was, and if I'd ever do a nuTrek version – it's, unsurprisingly, 'Amok Time'. And I might. It could satisfy the folks who wanted Pon Farr such-and-such from me too. But I'd probably have to delay a chapter or two in order to write it out – what do you guys think? Would you rather have just more Home, or a little detour?


	23. Chapter 23

The two-day wait for the U.S.S. _Nelson_ to arrive at least gave Scotty the time to finish the repairs in engineering – which, for a while, looked and sounded like a very convincing warzone – so Jim was able to send another team to help with the efforts on Vulcan II. Which was pretty much the best news regarding their situation.

The computers on the Klingon ships proved to be beyond the combined efforts of the security and communications teams, even with a few additions from the science department to try and help, and so those answers would have to wait until the vessels could be taken to the nearest starbase. Jim was currently operating on the theory that the Klingons were planning _some_ sort of aggressive move against Vulcan II, since that was the most dangerous scenario, and so he kept the sensors on alert status to monitor space around the colony. About half a day in, the Irri crew started to get a little restless in their confinement and inactivity, and Roon began asking when they were going to, essentially, do something. Not wanting to be cruel to the people, Jim let the security team give them freer run of their ships after locking down most of the systems, and had Ensign Mercado occasionally escort her charge to the rec room.

Jim reviewed past cases of similar Prime Directive violations, but the incident really was in a class of its own. He tried not to let the sinking feeling surrounding the entire situation get to him.

Chess games with Spock had become a routine.

"Your request was only that I attempt to overcome the animosity you perceived I held towards my alternate self," Spock informed him sagely, and then promoted his pawn on the board. Jim frowned at him. This game was not going well. His first officer was learning to adapt to his style of thinking, and so Jim was having to rethink his style.

"Actually, the deal was that while I give up sex, you give up bullshit. And so far I haven't had any sex, but you're still bullshitting," he pointed out, running a hand across his chin as he considered his options. "Of course, if you wanna change your mind…?"

Spock saw his bet and raised him an eyebrow. "Vulcans do not 'bullshit', Jim," he said. "Additionally, given that I harbor no animosity towards my alternate self, I do not see the issue."

"Vulcans don't bullshit. Sure," Jim replied, deciding that he had to risk it with his bishop at this point. It was all or nothing. "I'll just forget all the times I've seen you do it, then. And the times the old man did, too."

Spock proceeded to begin the obliteration of his opponent. "I do not know to which incidents you refer, but I am certain that you must be misperceiving them. I cannot speak to my alternate self – perhaps he suffered some sort of head trauma which resulted in a permanent chemical imbalance in his brain."

Jim contemplated throwing a couple of his own fallen chess pieces at him. His first officer's gaze was almost acidic. "Don't talk about him like that," he said sternly, settling for kicking back in his chair a bit and glaring. "Unlike you, _I_ happen to like the guy."

"I am well aware of your susceptibility to him," Spock agreed, as if Jim had just professed some kind of immune deficiency. There wasn't the same _genuine_ suspicion on the issue of his older self anymore, though. Now it just seemed to be some unnamed, petty dislike, however vehemently he denied it. The conversation had begun when Jim had decided that, since they were sitting out there in communications range, he'd call him up.

But then he'd mentioned it to Spock, and thus the argument ("Vulcans do not argue, Jim, we debate") had begun. It had escalated when Jim learned that, in fact, Spock hadn't spoken to his other self at _all_ since the night before the meld.

Thinking of the meld just made him want to call up the other Spock even more. Part of him was really hoping he'd be able to talk his younger self out of his sex-related fears. Another part of him was quietly a little interested about what his _own_ other self had been like, and what his relationship with that Spock had been.

Specifically, he found himself growing more and more curious to know how long they had been in one another's company for.

Of course, it wasn't like it really _mattered_, that had been another him with another personality and another life. But he was still curious. He also wondered if they ever got it on with one another. If not, then wasn't the old man in for a surprise?

"You say 'susceptible' like he's some kind of virus," Jim grumbled as his king was placed into check.

"I apologize if my choice of wording seemed inappropriate. Perhaps I should have said that he has you 'wrapped around his little finger'," Spock replied, and for a minute, Jim almost thought he was _sulking_ about it.

He shook his head. "You _know_ I don't like him more than you," he pointed out. It had come up when their minds had been all twined together. Skepticism about it would just be ridiculous at this point. Still, Spock had been a little edgy since that morning, when they'd gotten an update on the colony's equipment repairs and heard that things weren't going too hot.

"I do," Spock agreed. "I am certain you would not be nearly so dedicated in seducing him, at the very least, given that he is no longer at the peak of his aesthetic appeal."

There was a moment of dead silence. Utter, dead, _shocked_ silence. Spock had stiffened as soon as he'd spoken, immediately recognizing that he'd just said something very, very wrong. Again.

"…I do not suppose you would permit me to retract that statement?" he asked.

Jim was just staring at him.

Another long, quiet moment passed. During this time, Jim was not, in fact, thinking of much of anything. He was just sort of floating in this vague feeling of disquiet and realization. He'd know that Spock was afraid that he only liked him _because_ of his other self, or, perhaps, that he'd liked him _better_. But he'd been pretty sure they'd sorted that out.

Apparently, it was a bit more of a mess than he'd thought.

"Spock," he said eventually, his tone very low and slow. His first officer braced himself. Jim inhaled, and then let it out, and decided what he was going to say about this.

"If you took your brain and his brain and switched bodies with them so that he was young and you were old, you would still be _you_, and you would still be the person I'm doing this crazy 'courting' thing with, and so it would be _your_ wrinkly ass I would try to talk into bed," he said in a rush.

So, maybe not the most eloquent reassurance ever, but it got the job done. Hopefully. The really confounding part of it was, though, that was _true_. Jim had no interest, for one thing, in sleeping with a man who may or may not have slept with another man who had his name and face. There was a whole big ball of 'messed up' he wanted no part of. That was easy. The fact that, honestly, he'd probably still date _this_ Spock if he suddenly put on a hundred years – a little trickier. He decided to chalk it up to his open-mindedness. Plus, for an old guy, he wouldn't be half-bad looking.

He waited for Spock's response. For one mildly intriguing moment, he thought his first officer was going to jump him. It was the look in his eyes, and the way some of the muscles in his arms tensed, setting off subconscious alarm bells of happy anticipation in Jim. But it didn't happen. Instead he spoke.

"It would perhaps be prudent of me to meditate. My reasoning seems to be compromised," he said.

Jim gave an internal sigh.

"Okay, fine," he said. "But I'm still calling the old man. And I'm asking him if you're into kinky sex, and, just to reiterate, that's _not_ because I'm interested if _he_ is."

The corners of Spock's mouth twitched momentarily downwards. "I request that you do not," he said.

"Request all you like," Jim said. "I'm still doing it."

They glared at one another, then. Well, Jim glared – Spock did his little Vulcan glare, which involved squinting just a bit and keeping his neck very stiff. "I do not understand what you derive from being purposefully antagonistic on this subject," his first officer said eventually.

"'Purposefully antagonistic'?" Jim asked, shaking his head and feeling his temper flare. "_I_ just want to talk to a friend of mine."

"You wish to discuss matters of a sexual nature with him," Spock countered, as if that should explain why Jim's perspective was absolutely ridiculous.

"_Yes_," Jim replied, standing up and planting his hands on the desk. "It's the _logical_ thing to do!"

One of Spock's fists clenched shut.

"Logical?" he asked sharply. "Where is the logic in being preoccupied with sex?"

"I don't know, Spock," Jim replied unpleasantly. "Where's the logic in being ashamed of it?"

Spock's other hand clenched shut, now. "It is not shame," he denied. "It is a matter of culture, and Vulcan culture is based upon principals of logic and discipline."

Jim snorted. "Right. Which explains why you don't _talk_ about a natural bodily function. You didn't have any problems with me asking him for insights to your meditation. Why's this any different?" he countered.

"One subject is not necessarily equivalent to another," Spock replied. "I do not believe I am being unreasonable in requesting that you do not discuss our personal matters with a third party. Privacy is not illogical, it is a sense of social discretion."

"Privacy?" Jim asked. "What, exactly, are you trying to keep private from who? Because I'm pretty sure your alternate self knows about your sexual tendencies – that's the _point_, after all. So either you don't want him to know that _you _and _I_ are doing… whatever the _hell _it is we're doing, or you don't want _me_ to know about your sexual tendencies. Which, frankly, is kind of naïve at this point," he pointed out, the volume of his voice rising as he spoke.

"Cease shouting," Spock instructed him sharply.

"I'm not shouting!" Jim shouted. "I'm just _pissed_, because apparently I'm supposed to do all this shit that you want me to do – or _not_ do – but you're completely incapable of making one single fucking concession to me!"

There was some swift movement from Spock, and then he was standing in front of him, just across the desk, and Jim knew he was mad, too. He knew he should probably stop. Back off. But it went against his nature, and he was too worked up to reel it in now.

"I have made _several_ concessions for your sake," Spock informed him, leaning forward. "You do not have any idea how atypical our interactions would be considered by most Vulcans. I have never compromised myself so greatly for a single person before," he said lowly, and then, to Jim's shock, closed the distance between them and brought their mouths together, wrapping one hand around the back of his head.

It was an angry, frustrated kiss, hard and harsh, and Jim suspected his lips would be bruised as they warred with Spock's. Incensed, he forced it to deepen, bringing his tongue into play and pushing himself forward as, in a fit of revenge, he caught up one of Spock's hands and entwined their fingers together. A little jolt ran through him, sharper than what he'd have expected. Then, a moment later, he found himself being pulled over the desk, chess board and pieces scattering as Spock all but dragged them together, his legs scrambling in surprise as they were yanked off the ground before he landed on the opposite side.

He couldn't stop himself from making a sound, equal parts anger and arousal, as he was clutched tightly and his first officer's mouth moved from his own and down onto his neck. Their bodies were pressed flush against one another, hands wandering, and Jim shuddered at the warmth and touch he'd very much wanted to feel again. He grasped Spock's hips, trailing his thumbs up along the waistband of his pants and over the skin beneath his blue uniform shirt, as that delicious, hot mouth worked against him…

Because Spock was emotionally compromised.

Damn.

When Jim had been eighteen, he'd gone to a bar out of town and met this gorgeous – absolutely _gorgeous_ – girl. A body to die for, long blond hair, a playful, funny personality. He'd singled in on her straightaway, and spent the evening buying her drinks and chatting her up. But as it turned out, she couldn't hold her liquor. At all. So before long, Jim was barely feeling it, but she was getting steadily drunker – and coming on to him more and more as she did. It would have been easy to take her up on her increasingly lewd offers. After all, that had been the point in buying her drinks, but his intention hadn't actually been to get her _drunk_. Even though she'd decided how much she wanted to drink, and she was the one coming on strong to him, and he really would have liked to have ended the evening on a high note, the idea of taking advantage of her compromised state hadn't sat well with him. So it never went past a little drunken groping before he'd just walked her back to her apartment.

With an internal litany of curses that were impressive in their linguistic diversity, Jim pulled back. Or, well, he tried to, anyway. He got a bit of space between them before Spock's grip tightened, and he found his movements halted. His lips were caught up again, only this time with less anger, and a more agreeable sort of passion. He exhaled a little into the contact, warmth pooling in his gut and a winding knot of want curling in his chest. There was that tingling buzz, too, he realized now, washing through him with a heady current of desire.

Oh _hell_, he was going to be kicking himself for weeks over this, he just knew it, and he felt mad at himself and mad at Spock, and frustrated and disappointed over the entire state of affairs. And frightened, too, because he was sure he'd just shot himself in the foot with this.

As those feelings ran through him, the 'buzz' became unpleasant.

Spock stilled.

After a long, quiet moment, he let go of Jim, taking a step back. His skin was flushed, eyes dark and expression hard. Jim was breathing heavily, trying to get a grip on himself.

It wasn't easy.

And then wordlessly Spock turned and, at near-running speed, stalked straight out of the room.

Jim leaned back against the desk behind him, gripping it hard enough to bruise his own fingers, and said aloud the string of profanity he'd so far kept inside his head. Spock had made the first move, but Jim had been the one to utterly lose his cool and deepen things, to provoke a greater response out of him. He'd been angry, and had gotten petty enough in a moment to manipulate those emotions which could still be so shaky for his first officer. And, dammit, part of him really wished they'd just kept going. A big part of him. Ultimately he hadn't even told Spock that he was going to _stop_, he'd just pulled back a little. So maybe his first officer even thought he'd meant not to. He'd just gotten enough of a handle on himself to stop on his own.

Shit. This was bad.

This was very, very bad. Spock would probably decide that it meant their whole situation just wasn't working out. Even if Jim told him he'd intended to stop, it would probably just seem like he was lying. Or else he'd conclude that the whole thing was still his fault anyway.

The anxiety compounded, and so Jim decided to hang on to being pissed off. With an air of renewed anger, he picked up the fallen chess set, and began gathering the scattered pieces up from the floor. This whole thing really was _Spock's_ fault. Jim wasn't even asking him to have the awkward sex conversation with his alternate self – he was willing to do it on his behalf. But no. Spock wouldn't talk to the old man, and he was actually trying to disallow Jim from doing it as well. Which was pretty fucking audacious of him. _If I want to talk to the older you about anything, I will,_ he thought, continuing the angry conversation with his first officer in his head.

Concessions. Spock said he'd made a lot of concessions for Jim. But from Jim's perspective, he'd set up more restrictions than anything else. Here's how we'll kiss, here's how we'll touch, here's what we won't do. He'd only asked for one thing when they started this up, so _fuck_ Spock and his non-existent _concessions_.

Pointy-eared bastard.

The top had chipped off of the black king when it had scattered on the desk. Jim picked it up, swallowing and frowning, and put it aside. He dropped to his knees, searching the fine, short carpet around his desk until he found the little bobble piece which was supposed to rest upon its head. Thinking, he laid it down beside the rest of the king, and then rifled through his desk drawers until he found a small laser tool designed for computer repairs. The piece was too tiny. He burned his hand as he carefully melted it back in place, ignoring the pain until the job was done, and then whipping his fingers up to his mouth with a curse once the king was back whole again.

He slumped into the chair behind his desk and contemplated the tiny, angry red mark in silence.

Several minutes later, he got a call from the bridge. The _Nelson_ had arrived.

With a kind of tense unhappiness, Jim saw to it that he was presentable enough to face another captain, and then made his way up. Spock wasn't at his post, but that was hardly surprising. He was probably sequestered in his quarters, lighting his candles and trying to purge himself of all the shit they'd stirred up. Jim felt a momentary pang of guilt, which he quickly thrust aside. He'd leave his first officer to it – it wasn't like he _needed_ him.

Still, when he got up there he earned a few looks of curious surprise, as if the bridge crew thought it was odd that he should arrive alone.

"The captain of the _Nelson_ is requesting to speak with you, sir," Uhura informed him, after looking behind him and frowning a bit, as if suspecting that Spock was for some reason hiding in the turbolift. "Shall I inform Commander Spock of the arrival?"

"I think I'm capable of having a conversation without my first officer present, Lieutenant," Jim replied, trying to keep the stiffness out of his voice. "Let's leave the commander to his free time unless we need him."

'The commander'. Not the usual, rather fond 'Mr. Spock' he'd employed since returning from shore leave. Uhura's gaze turned suspicious. Chekov and Sulu exchanged glances. Jim ignored them, moving instead to his captain's chair.

"Open a channel to the _Nelson_ on screen," he instructed. A moment later, the black expanse of space was exchanged for the view of a Federation starship's bridge. A little older and less 'fresh-from-the-factory' than the _Enterprise_'s , but still fairly state of the art. The crew which stared back at them was much the same, including Captain Malhotra, who was about the same age as Jim's mother. She had a stately, formal air about her as she sat on her bridge, legs folding and arms resting on either side of her narrow, dark grey command seat.

"Captain Kirk," she greeted politely. "We hear you've run into a little trouble with some pirates…?"

Jim smiled, and tried not to be too cocky about it. It was hard when he was still riding the high from being incredibly angry, but he managed it. "What we've run into is definitely more complicated than that," he replied, and then proceeded to explain the details of their situation, keeping his tone formal and polite and stopping himself from slipping into his usual, more casual style of speech a few times. He was getting good at his 'captain's voice', but it was still hard to keep up for an extended period of time. It just didn't fall easily out of him.

Captain Malhotra and her bridge crew listened in silence as he updated them, and Jim found he was proud of his own crew, who maintained an equal level of professional composure. Only the two captains spoke as the situation was carefully laid out, and Jim voiced his own assessments and opinions of what may be going on.

When he was finished, the _Nelson'_s captain resettled into her seat, frowning and folding her hands into her lap. "I see," she said at length, looking as displeased as Jim felt with the whole state of affairs. "You were right in sending for additional aid with this, captain."

…Damn. Jim got a simultaneously bristling and sinking feeling as he found himself being addressed like a student who'd just answered a class question correctly. That did not bode well.

"I think my crew and I will be able to handle the investigation from here. We'll begin sending teams to the Klingon ships to try and access their computer systems," Captain Malhotra said.

An offended sort of tension settled over the _Enterprise_'s bridge, crewmembers stiffening at their stations. Jim leaned forward in his seat a little bit. "Captain," he said. "With all due respect, _my_ teams have already attempted to access the computer systems. We've been working on it for the past two and a half days. If they can't get it, then it'll take specialists to pull it off." _Don't insult my crew, lady._

"I meant no slight to your crew's abilities, Captain Kirk," Malhotra replied, still in that 'teacher' voice, which was starting to grate against his nerves like sandpaper. "My own people have extensive experience with Klingon technology, however. It's possible that we may be able to find something you've missed."

Jim warred with himself. On the one hand, he didn't like Malhotra's tone, and he didn't like her undermining the efforts of his ship. But on the other, her crew _was_ more experienced, and going off of her comment, had likely fought against Klingons and salvaged their vessels in the past. So the smart thing to do would probably be to let them have their own look around.

He didn't exactly _swallow_ his pride, but he calmed it down enough to make the smarter choice. "Alright, Captain, if that's what you want, you can let your teams take a crack at it," he said, making concessions to his own people's morale by adopting a slightly patronizing tone of voice.

Now it was the _Nelson's_ turn to bristle.

Malhotra's expression was one of patient condescension. "_Thank you_, Captain," she replied.

Jim nodded, in a fashion which implied he knew it was a waste of time, but that he was being a good sport about it. "I'll alert my security teams to expect your people. We're still waiting for orders from Starfleet on how to proceed from here, but if you can, I'd ask that you check with your Chief Engineer to see if you're able to spare any manpower for equipment repairs on Vulcan II. Some of the _Uwibami'_s cargo was damaged during the firefight, and they've requested aid," he added.

The other captain inclined her head. "Of course," she agreed. "I understand how difficult protection details can be. These things happen, especially when it's your first time conducting certain missions."

Jim grit his teeth.

"I'm sure the colonists will appreciate anything you can do," he said. Then they exchanged the usual, polite farewells, and cut the transmission.

He looked around himself. 'Offended' didn't even begin to cut it. People were glaring at the viewscreen, or at their stations, tense and unhappy at being treated like small children who'd done a particularly clever trick. For the first time, Jim considered the fact that he really wasn't alone in being condescended to by Starfleet. Even his more seasoned officers found themselves in that position, as they were, literally, in the same 'boat'. The crew was all painted with the same brush.

"Bitch," he heard his communication's officer mutter very quietly from behind him. Unfortunately for the lieutenant, the utter silence of the bridge meant that her soft comment carried.

It started with Sulu snickering a little at his station. That got Chekov going, and soon enough Jim found his lips twitching. He looked back at Uhura, who'd clamped a hand to her mouth, eyes wide as the personnel at nearby stations started to snicker and chuckle. A few minutes later the entire bridge was laughing, captain included, and inevitably her moment of embarrassment passed and Uhura had joined in, too.

"That was highly inappropriate, Lieutenant," Jim pointed out once the brief wave had passed, but his tone implied that he agreed with her assessment nevertheless. "Alright, everybody, we've got to remember that these are our fellow Starfleet officers, and that they're going to be horribly humiliated when they don't crack those computer systems. So let's play nice," he declared. There were several 'yes, sir's and 'aye, captain's.

"Keptan," Chekov asked. "What if they _do_ crack the computer systems?"

Jim looked at him, and then around again at several expectant faces. He shrugged. "In that case, we'll know what the Klingons were up to," he said, in a tone which implied that, of course, this would be the preferable situation to be in, social disagreements notwithstanding. It returned the professionalism to his bridge.

He brought his hands together, and then winced as he rubbed the burn on his skin the wrong way. Glancing down, he noted again its awkward placing, and knew it would distract him if he left it where it was. Because, of course, he needed the frequent use of his hands.

Not for any other reason.

"Lieutenant, update Security Chief Giotto on the _Nelson's_ plans, and let me know if I'm needed. Mr. Sulu, you have the conn," he said, and at their acknowledging replies, made his way to the turbolift. He'd just get Bones to quickly zap his burn so it didn't distract him anymore.

When he walked into the medical bay, however, a pair of large arms wrapped around his shoulders.

"Captain Kirk!" Roon said cheerfully. He had, more or less, been camped out in sickbay, acting as something of a cultural liaison to help them understand the best ways of dealing with the Irri crews. His fondness for Jim was becoming a little awkward, in a weirdly endearing sort of fashion.

"Hi, Roon," he replied, patting one of the thick arms around him. After a moment Roon stepped back again, blinking vertically at him.

"You are suffering from sickness?" the Irri asked, tipping his head to one side a little, and frowning.

Jim gave his arm another pat. "Nothing big, I just burned myself. Is Bones around?"

"No," Roon replied bluntly. "He is gone for food." Then he moved away, and Jim figured he'd had enough of the conversation. He looked around himself, sure he could hear one of the nurses moving around a ways away – it might be better to get one of them to treat him. He'd earn less of a lecture, at least, although he kind of wanted to talk to Bones. A little.

He was surprised when Roon came back a moment later, holding a dermal regenerator. His eyes widened as the Irri examined both of his hands, found the burn, and then ran the device carefully over it. If he hadn't been so shocked, he probably would have stopped him – because the setting could have been wrong, or he could have recognized the device incorrectly. But he didn't, and it worked fine.

"There. Better," Roon informed him cheerfully, before moving to replace the regenerator on one of the supply tables.

Jim regarded him carefully for a moment. He supposed it was possible that such tools were included in the colony's supply shipment, but they were pretty basic medical equipment. It was more likely that they would have been supplied right off the bat, back during the initial stages of development. Of course, they might have needed replacements.

Still.

"…Hey Roon, how did you learn to do that?" he asked.

Roon blinked at him. "I watched Doctor Bones," he replied.

…Shit. _They are fucking quick learners, Jim, you idiot,_ he thought angrily at himself, wondering why he didn't think about the dangers of leaving the Irri around their _own_ advanced technology before. Sure, the worst of the damage was already done, but that didn't mean they should keep adding to it. Thank god Roon had never been on the bridge, or in engineering. If there was anything his people hadn't learned on their own then he probably would have pieced it together from watching his crew work.

"Should I not watch?" Roon asked, seeming little more than genuinely curious. Jim sighed and ran a hand through his hair.

"No, it's not your fault," he assured him. Then he considered. He could ask Roon to stop observing the crew, but that put him dangerously close to exercising 'master' levels of control over the guy, and he didn't want to do that. It might be better at this point to just send the Irri back to the Klingon… cruiser…

Where Giotto's security team, and now Malhotra's, were operating systems and using tools and trying to access computers.

More shit. The Irri had been watching them for two days, hadn't they?

Well this just kept getting better and better.

"You are angry?" Roon asked, and Jim looked over at him, drawn up out of his thoughts.

He shifted a little. "Don't worry about it," he instructed, and then turned to leave. Then he happened to glance at Ensign Mercado, who was scrolling through a datapad and absent-mindedly biting her thumbnail.

Security at its finest. He supposed that guarding Roon was fairly boring at this point, but still. Clearing his throat, he folded his arms.

"Enjoying your reading, Ensign?"

With admirable speed, she tucked the datapad into her back pocket and sprung to attention, standing and straightening her spine in the usual 'security detail' pose, her cheeks reddening and her throat bobbing in embarrassment at being caught out.

"Yes, captain. Sorry, captain. It gets kind of boring here, sir," she said, in prompt, military tones.

Well, she did watch Roon most of the time. He sighed and let it go with a gentle reminder that she _was_ supposed to keep the guy _secure_, and if she was going to slack off, could she at least maintain enough alertness to notice when her boss came in?

Roon watched the interaction with interest. After a minute, he hugged Jim again.

"I like you," the Irri professed, like a gigantic four-year-old. There was an odd purring tone to his voice.

Ensign Mercado mouthed 'he does that', and then shrugged.

"Uh, that's great," Jim replied, figuring he'd just wait it out. He hoped he wasn't being flirted with again. As fun as being hit-on could be, he really wasn't in the mood for it.

"You are very kind and strong, and you are good," Roon continued, still hugging him.

"…Thanks?"

"You are not with Mr. Spock. Has he angered you?" he asked, and it could have been Jim's imagination, but he thought there was a slightly hopeful tone to his voice. And what was _with_ people? He went places without Spock all the damn time, it wasn't like they were tied at the hip. Although, now that he thought of it, he supposed that he could grudgingly admit that for the past few days, they _had_ spent a lot of time together.

That was enough hugging, though. Jim pushed away, and Roon obligingly stepped back, lowering his arms to his sides. "Spock's just meditating," he replied.

"I do not know this thing," Roon admitted.

Jim thought about it, running a hand along the back of his head. He should probably just go. But he was off shift, and he didn't really have anyplace important to be just yet. Bones could come back soon, too, and he still kind of wanted to talk to him. Just kind of.

Then again, he could always storm into his quarters and call up the old man. He didn't know why he didn't just do that.

"Meditating is like thinking really hard," Jim explained instead, moving over so he was sitting in one of the medical bay's chairs. He'd wait for Bones. Roon plunked down into the seat next to him. "Vulcans – that's what Mr. Spock is – do it very often to sort out their thoughts." Not that it made them any more comprehensible to the rest of the universe.

"Vulcan?" Roon asked. "He is not Federation?"

Jim glanced at him. "Not exactly," he said. "The Federation is like the name for our… group. Mr. Spock's _species_ is Vulcan, like how you're Irri, or I'm human." He wouldn't bother going into the details of Spock's genetic history. It would probably just confuse things a little more.

"Oh," Roon said, and Jim was pretty sure he got it now as he seemed to process this information. "Vulcans are bad at thinking?"

He started a little. "No," he replied. "Vulcans are really _good_ at thinking."

Reaching over, Roon clasped his shoulder, his hand falling a little heavily onto Jim. "I do not think this thing is true, if he must work hard at it."

Well, it wasn't his _thinking_ that Spock was working at, poor descriptive word choices aside. But Jim wasn't going to expound upon the man's emotional problems to an alien and a security guard, the latter of whom was listening in with blatant curiosity. He was pretty damn sure that there was some kind of betting pool now. The details were still eluding him, though.

Roon leaned in a little closer to him, keeping one hand on his shoulder. "I am good at thinking," he said. "I do not need any time for it."

"Yeah," Jim agreed. "I've noticed that." He wondered what Spock would do once he'd finished meditating. Once he was no longer angry. Would he just walk up to him, all disconnected and reserved, and… then what? Ask for a transfer? Give him the 'let's just be friends' speech?

It took him a moment to notice that he had an Irri practically hanging over him, one hand on the opposite side of his chair, and face a little too close for comfort.

"…Hey," he said, shifting back a bit. Damn but this guy liked to get cozy.

"I still do not know," said Roon. "If you would like me to master you?"

Oh.

He was flirting again.

And being a lot more hands-on about it than he had been the last time, too. "Thanks, but, I'm good," Jim replied. He actually had about zero interest in Roon, probably through combination of the fact that he wasn't exactly his type (although he was no longer very concrete on such things) and because doing anything with him would be a very bad idea. Culturally. Probably. Spock had nothing to do with it.

Roon tipped his head a little, the tone of his voice dropping. "Then _you_ will master _me_?" he said, about as subtle as a sledge-hammer now.

For about all of a second, Jim found he actually _was_ tempted. Just a little. He didn't exactly find Roon particularly appealing, but not unappealing, either, and it would definitely put the final nail in the coffin between himself and Spock.

It was a very brief moment. Then he pushed himself out of the chair, and away from the Irri. "Sorry," he said.

Roon blinked at him, clearly disappointed. Jim found there wasn't much appeal in standing there and feeling like he'd kicked the guy, so he turned and marched his way out of sickbay, ignoring Ensign Mercado's curious gaze as it followed his exit. In no time flat it would probably be all over the ship that the Irri leader – or former leader, technically – had made a pass at him. Not that it was particularly important. He'd turned him down, anyway, although the rumour mill would probably make a mess of it.

He wasn't really thinking much about where he was headed, so it was probably just distraction that carried his feet past the door to his own quarters, and stopped him outside Spock's.

Spock was meditating. It would be wrong to interrupt him. He didn't even want to see him anyway, he was still pissed. If _anybody_ should be apologizing it should be _Spock_, even if Jim had screwed up, too, because Spock had definitely screwed up first.

He hit the call for the door.

It was locked. Well, of course it was locked, if he'd had a 'Do Not Disturb' sign he'd probably have put that up. Along with a 'No Captains Allowed'.

The lock clicked off and the door slid open.

Jim stilled in surprise, looking at Spock, who was in turn looking at him somewhat inscrutably. He seemed calmer now.

There was a pause. Several passing crewmembers in the corridor stopped to watch their captain and first officer, curious.

After a minute, Spock stepped aside, inviting Jim in.

He took a step forward, walking into the heat and relative gloom of quarters designed to meet Vulcan preferences. The air was dry, so it was a bit like stepping into an oven, but he found he didn't mind it terribly. The familiar scent of the meditation candles was present, but none were currently lit. _That was fast,_ he thought, wondering how his first officer had gotten through meditation in a matter of minutes.

"Jim," a somewhat older voice said in a familiar tone, and Jim stilled in surprise, noting that the console on the desk was active. There was a channel to Vulcan II on it.

The other Spock was staring serenely at him, his eyes looking vaguely amused and, as usual, welcoming.

He whipped his gaze over to his own Spock, and felt surprise mingle with a heavy sensation in his chest. His first officer straightened a little, folding his arms behind his back and taking in a breath.

"Upon reconsideration, I concluded that your argument was not… without logic," he said, looking supremely uncomfortable.

And also, somehow, remarkably resolute.

---

**Author's Note:** Looks like the votes favor more Home, and I'm happy to oblige. I think what I'll do is maybe see if I can sneak in _extra_ writing time for nuTrek Amok Time, but if not, then I'll just do it when Home's finished.

Alright, to answer some more questions (some of which are repeats, but that's okay):

- I have no clue how much longer the story will be. My outline's too vague to say, and I run off on subplots all the time. We've still got a good chunk to go, though, at the very least.

- I write this on my laptop whenever I can get a spare minute, so I'm not sure _exactly_ how long it takes to do an average chapter, since I don't do it all at once or anything (think I'd die if I did). But it happily eats up my recreation time.

- Hopefully, by the end of this story, no one will really want a Spock's POV version anymore. I'm not masochistic enough to go back and rewrite the whole thing from his perspective. Also, I think it would probably disappoint people. _Most_ of the time he's just humming the Meow-Mix song in his head.

- What went on between chapters sixteen and seventeen is entirely up to your imagination. Have fun with it.


	24. Chapter 24

Jim's mind just stuttered for a moment, holding up as it took the time to re-assess the situation.

He had been sure that things were not going to go his way. Or any way that he at all liked. In fact, he hadn't known quite _what_ he'd been thinking when he hit the call for Spock's door. Maybe to apologize. Maybe to get broken up with. Maybe to swallow his pride and offer to let Spock be as ridiculous about sex as he wanted. He'd been pretty sure that Spock would be pissed, and meditating, and repressing the hell out of himself.

Instead he wasn't meditating. Or even pissed. He was actually talking to his other self.

He was making a concession.

Jim could only look at him for a moment, amazed at how _happy_ that made him. Too happy to smile, even. He was just staring at Spock, and wondering, and thinking in an ambiguous, unprocessed way how awesome it was that he was willing to do something he really didn't want to – all the way, too, not just letting Jim do it for him – because of… this. Them. He was uncomfortable about it, but he'd made up his mind. He'd actually set up the _connection_ to Vulcan II. And for a minute he simply stood there, losing himself in this sudden wash of fondness and affection for his first officer.

"I remember that look," the other Spock said, effectively drawing him out of the moment. The younger Spock was still tense, but at Jim's expression, he seemed less unhappy about things. He shot his version of an annoyed glance at the old man when he said that, though.

Jim suddenly felt a little embarrassed. He cleared his throat, straightening up and trying to look less enamored with Spock.

If anything, the younger Spock seemed even _more_ annoyed after that.

"Hey, old man," Jim greeted, moving a little closer to the console. "Sorry to interrupt."

"Do not concern yourself over it, Jim," the older Spock replied. "I believe my young counterpart is having difficulty in formulating his question for me, so your presence is perhaps fortuitous. Do you know what he has been attempting to ask?"

Jim glanced at his Spock, who was ramrod straight and not really focusing on either of them now. If he had to guess, he'd say that his first officer was wishing he was somewhere else. It reminded Jim of the one time he'd walked in on Sam and a girl, and the subsequent awkwardness which had ensued between them for about three days afterwards. That whole 'can't-look-you-in-the-eye' kind of embarrassment.

He hadn't had any idea that Jim would turn up. He'd been trying to broach the topic himself, alone, even though he hated doing it.

"Sit down, Spock," he advised, gesturing towards a chair that wasn't directly in front of the desk. He didn't think he wanted to be in the center of the action for this. Without waiting to see if he obliged – the guy could stand, if he preferred, but it just made his tension more visible – Jim took his own seat in front of the console, and promptly claimed control of the conversation.

It was probably his turn to steal a transmission anyway.

"I've got his questions," he said. For a moment he felt his own, ever-so-slight trill of nerves, knowing that he was going to bridge an interesting topic. But the open and patient expression on the older Spock's face made it easy to talk. "Okay, first off – did you and the other me ever have sex?" he asked.

The old man blinked.

Then he carefully regarded Jim, and, after a slow moment, looked over at his other self. Who was staring fixedly at a non-existent speck of dust on his desk.

"You did not waste any time, did you?" he asked, and he sounded just the tiniest bit surprised in his subtle, warm way.

"Is that a 'yes'?" Jim asked, trying to draw the attention back to himself. It wasn't hard. The older Spock looked away from his young counterpart, and then, after a beat, inclined his head.

"There was a sexual element to our relationship," he confirmed.

Suddenly, Jim found his mind full of questions. It shouldn't have really mattered too much. He wasn't supposed to judge himself by somebody else, and yet, even though it had been an _alternate_ version of who he was, there must have still been something to tie them together. Some ways in which they were similar.

Capable of the same things.

But he clamped down on the floodgate. Because it really _didn't_ matter, and he wasn't going to pretend that it did by acknowledging his own curiosity out loud.

"Great. Good to know. So – did you ever hurt him while you two were going at it?" he asked, cutting straight to the heart of the matter.

An expression of comprehension dawned in the old man's eyes. Once more, his gaze moved between them. "…I see," he said. The younger Spock had finally looked over now, and Jim was surprised, because his stare was intent in its focus on the console's screen. He had the sneaking suspicion that his own Spock was watching to see if his other self lied.

"While it would be untruthful to say that neither of us ever suffered some minor pain or unintended injury in the course of our interactions, I believe that, in the spirit of your question, the answer would be no. I did not."

Jim wasn't surprised.

He had suspected the answer even when Spock had first posed the question, but the moment when it had solidified into a real certainty had been shortly after his first officer had accused him of being incapable of Vulcan-level monogamy. It was simply this – he had had Jim pinned, had been riled, and _could_ have done as he liked. But when he asked him to, Spock let him go.

His first officer, quite simply, could not get his rocks off unless they were _both_ enjoying themselves. Jim gave him a look which very much said 'I told you so'. It left his face, however, when he saw how something inside Spock seemed to have loosened, and he was leaning slightly forward. Relieved.

"Great," said Jim. "That's all we needed to know. How's the colony work going? I've been getting status reports from my crew on the equipment repairs…"

For several minutes he simply chatted with the older Spock, who switched gears easily enough, and seemed happy to inform Jim of his general daily activities and the ups and downs of trying to establish a new homeworld. A lot of the colonists were still having problems with their meditations, between their grief and the focus point complications, and with Vulcans, nothing was ever done by halves. It was rough going.

"I do not believe they would appreciate your divulging such sensitive information without their consent," the younger Spock chimed in at one point, as his counterpart laid out the troubles.

"Jim will not tell anyone, unless for some reason it should become necessary," the older Spock replied evenly, and once again, Jim found himself happily enjoying having another person's faith in himself. "I trust him with such knowledge as I would trust few others."

"He is not secretive in nature," the young Spock pointed out, and Jim frowned, although he didn't have any genuine anger. It was mostly playful, in fact. His bad mood seemed to have left him.

He gave his Spock a mock-glare. "Hey, _he_ is right here, and _he_ hasn't told anyone about _your_ condition, has he?"

Before he could get a reply from that, a cool, neutral voice called for the other Spock on his end of the connection. The elder half-Vulcan gave both of them his apologies, and with exchanged farewells, the transmission ended.

There hadn't been an invitation or opening to ask any of his _real_ questions. He was almost relieved about it.

"So…" he said into the quiet which followed. After a beat he stood up, and moved over to where Spock was sitting.

Jim considered him for a moment. Then, in compliance with the urge he felt to just do _something_ affectionate, he leaned over. Placing his hands on the arms of the seat, he brought his face up to his first officer's, and pressed his lips against the corner of Spock's mouth. Warm and soft. Then he pulled back. "Sorry if I, uh, provoked you, and everything."

Fingers were extended. He met them easily.

"I would like to apologize as well," Spock replied honestly, the twining buzz of their touch pleasant once again. "My actions were in error."

And somehow, suddenly, that was that. Fight over. Crisis averted. Everything back to normal – and wasn't it strange how being happily in Spock's company was 'normal' now? But it was, and Jim wasn't about to complain.

"You realize this gives me another excellent argument," he said instead.

Spock raised an eyebrow at him. "Indeed?" he asked.

"Oh yeah," Jim confirmed. "See, when you were telling me about why Vulcans are all prudish, you said the 'good reason' for it was because Vulcan sex is _dangerous_. But since that's a load – in your case, anyway-"

The rest of his sentence was cut off as Spock kissed him.

Jim decided that that was the best way to be interrupted. Ever.

"I find that I am disinclined to engage in debate with you at this time," Spock informed him, once he'd freed his mouth again.

He grinned, and found that, right then, talking his first officer into bed with him wasn't the most important thing in the universe, either. "Does that mean you agree with me?" he asked anyway.

"We are not going to engage in sexual intercourse at this time, Jim."

Jim decided that Spock undermined his own statement a little bit when he kissed him again, but he knew it wasn't really _going_ somewhere. Still – he found, oddly enough, that he wasn't unsatisfied. His first officer was being remarkably affectionate with him.

On a whim, he shifted, moving one of his hands and running it along Spock's cheek. He brought his thumb across the curve of his ear, and then looped his fingers through the soft, short hair behind it. After a moment, they broke apart again, but Jim let his hand trail along his first officer's jaw, lingering a second.

"What made you change your mind? About talking to the other you?" he asked.

Spock raised his eyebrows at him, and then tilted his head a little.

"After I had… calmed somewhat," he began to answer. "I considered that I have been viewing our relationship as compared primarily to Vulcan terms. This was what happened in my relationship with Lieutenant Uhura as well. It occurred to me that if I did not wish for our own interactions to meet the same end, then logically, I should reconsider my approach."

Jim's throat tightened a little. He might have kissed Spock again, but it _was_ fairly hot in his quarters, and that, combined with his proximity to his first officer's own high temperature, made him straighten away a little instead. His expression was very pleased, however.

"I'm… glad," he admitted. "I guess we just don't think the same way when it comes to sex."

Spock's eyes took on a playful turn as he said that. "I would not say that is entirely true," he replied. "But our philosophies do seem to be disparate. I am appreciative of your willingness to attempt this on my terms – and I do not object to your efforts to convince me of yours."

He was turning red because of the heat. Not because he was inordinately pleased to learn that Spock really wasn't at all _bothered_ by his attempts to seduce him, the successfulness of those attempts notwithstanding.

"Yeah, well," he said, pulling a little at the collar of his uniform shirt. "I guess it isn't _so_ bad. The not having sex. I mean, I'd still like to. It's just not that awful to… _not_." His voice was a little awkward as he said this. Damn, but it was a weird relationship, wasn't it? 'Sure, the sex is non-existent, but the chess is pretty hot.'

Then again, he supposed, having something more to this than sex was... nice.

Somehow, both having sex and not having sex had remarkably failed to ruin their simultaneously existent friendship. Arguments and disagreements that would have shattered apart other relationships Jim had had weren't making much of a dent, either. Spock was still here. More than that, he was making a concerted effort to _stay_ here.

Spock liked Jim as much as Jim liked Spock.

Jim liked Spock _a lot_.

"I think I have to go before I melt," he said suddenly, and found that he meant it in more ways than one. Spock's gaze turned assessing, and he nodded, standing up and laying a hand against his arm.

"You are over-heated," he noted. "I should have lowered the temperature of the room when you arrived."

"It's alright," Jim assured him. "I'm fine, I just can't stay much longer."

"Then do not," Spock advised him. "It would be advisable for me to resume my meditations at this point as well."

Just before he left, Jim extended the hand-kiss gesture again – it just seemed appropriate to say goodbye with it. Spock met it, as he now fully expected him to.

The surprise came just as the door slid open, and he turned to walk out. Right when their hands were about to disconnect, Spock's fingers moved against his, ever-so-slightly, in a caress. Jim's own unintentionally 'erotic' act.

He only had time to see the subtle, playful glint in his first officer's eyes before the door slid shut behind him, and it was replaced with a smooth, grey surface.

His hand was tingling.

Jim gaped at the closed door. Then he looked at his hand. Then he gaped at the door a little more.

Had…? He… he just…

Slowly, a satisfied smile made its way onto his face.

It slipped a little when he turned around and nearly walked into Uhura.

The communications officer was standing the corridor not far from him, and she looked more than a little shocked. Jim stared at her. She stared back. He considered just turning around and walking away, or going straight past. Those plans were thwarted when Uhura took on a determined expression, and reaching over, grabbed him by the arm.

He wondered if he should be glad that the corridor was more or less empty just then. On the one hand, it meant no one was there to see him get _dragged_ to his quarters by the lieutenant. On the other, there was a good chance that she wouldn't have tried to cart her captain off in front of witnesses. It wasn't exactly professional military conduct.

"Lieutenant…" he began, trying to adopt more official tones.

She glanced back at him. "Save it, or I'll tell Dr. McCoy that you were the one who puked in his environmental training suit last year."

Jim shut up. Then he blinked. "Wait, how the hell do _you_ know about that?" he asked, as the door to his quarters opened, and he followed her inside.

"Gaila told me," she replied. "Of course, at the time I didn't know it was _you_ she was talking about. I only figured that out later."

"Damn," he replied, cursing his inability to have kept that to himself. Still. Bones had been so hilariously angry, and utterly oblivious – not sharing it with someone would have been impossible.

Once the door had closed shut behind them, Uhura turned, and folded her arms. "I just want to make it perfectly clear that this is entirely off the record and has nothing to do with our working relationships," she said.

Jim regarded her warily. "…Okay," he said.

He regretted it when she smacked him.

"You _are_ sleeping with him!" she exclaimed in an accusatory fashion.

Jim recovered from the sharp sting on his face, and scowled.

"Why the hell did you hit me?!" he demanded, and then, rolling with his Uhura-is-Bones theory, tried to figure out why Bones would hit Spock. The lightbulb went off. "I didn't hurt him!"

She looked well and truly pissed, however. "You're taking advantage of him. I can't believe you! This is the scummiest thing I've ever heard of you doing."

Jim bristled. "Hey! I'm not 'scummy'," he protested. "I'm charmingly adventurous."

"You tried to make out with a tricorder on a _dare_," Uhura shot back.

Stupid Gaila. If he'd known that she was going to go blabbing about all of his exploits to his future boyfriend's ex-girlfriend, he wouldn't have told her so damn much.

He paused, and re-ran that thought through his head again. It stopped at 'boyfriend'. Normally, he wasn't used to thinking of relationships in those kinds of terms. But he supposed it fit. Spock was his boyfriend, more or less. That was actually kind of awesome.

"…Why are you smiling?" Uhura asked, giving him a baffled look. Jim brought himself out of it.

"Nothing. I wasn't. _You're_ smiling," he shot back defensively.

There was an awkward pause, as neither of them seemed to know how to proceed. After a minute his communications officer just settled for glaring a little.

"Look, I know he seems like he's indestructible sometimes, but he's _not_. And I'm sure that to somebody like you the idea of getting him to crack must be a kind of fun challenge-"

"I already told you I'm not that big of a jerk," Jim interrupted. "Do you think he'd put up with me if I was?"

That seemed to bring her up short for a moment.

"…I don't know," she admitted at length. "Ever since Vulcan, he hasn't really been the same."

Given that Jim hadn't really known Spock before 'Vulcan', he couldn't exactly say much to that. But he knew what he was going through _because_ of it. How much of that Uhura was aware of was still up in the air.

"What do you want from me?" he finally asked, lifting his hands in a hopeless shrug and then clapping them lightly against his sides. "If you're trying to tell me to back off, then tough shit. I'm not going to." If Spock couldn't chase him off of Spock, Uhura wasn't going to be able to manage it. "You already gave me the 'if-you-hurt-him-I'll-give-you-hell' speech, so that's not it."

Uhura sighed, folding her arms again. "Do you know, when he was at the academy, practically _no one_ ever spoke to him?" she said. "Not unless it was something to do with work. I'm the only friend he's got – there isn't anyone else to watch his back for him. And the one time I need to just break away, that I'm not there for him, what happens?"

Jim had a sneaking suspicion about what had happened. Uhura took a step forward, and pointed an accusatory finger at him.

"You," she said. "He said that you spent your whole vacation together. The _second_ I turned my back, you snapped him up as if you'd just been waiting for the chance." Her finger jabbed his arm. "Were you?"

"Was I what?"

"Were you waiting?" she asked.

He looked at her, and then shook his head. "No," he said simply. "I'm sorry to disappoint you, but that whole 'stealing his brain' thing? I made that up. I don't really have any evil plans."

"Do you have any plans _at all?_" Uhura tried, her gaze searching as she looked at his face.

He wasn't really expecting that question. It gave him pause. Jim never really _planned_, at least, not in terms of extensive, big-picture sort of things. He'd planned to graduate from the academy, for example, and he planned on being a good captain, but those were both sort of things he just fell into. Spock was like that too, he realized. He didn't _plan_ on what he was doing with him. It just happened, more or less, and he reacted to what came with it.

But that wasn't quite true, either.

"I plan on keeping him around," he said, and that was all he could say about his resolve, because that was all he really understood about it.

Uhura regarded him steadily.

Then she seemed to deflate a little, the fight going out of her, and just shook her head. "Well, you were always kind of endearing, I guess. He must see _something_ in you."

"Wow. Thanks," he replied, and then chuckled. "I'm pretty sure he's just using me to further his career ambitions. The second he can swap me out for some Commodore or Admiral, I'll be old news." The idea of Spock sleeping his way to the top was so utterly ridiculous that it managed to wrangle a smile out of his communications officer. Not _much_ of a smile, but it was definitely better than the wariness she'd had before.

"I shouldn't have slapped you," she conceded after a minute, actually looking apologetic about it.

"Yeah," Jim agreed. "I could have you transferred."

There was an awkward moment before she realized he was still joking.

He cleared his throat, then, wondering if there was anything else to be said. There seemed to be. At least, Uhura wasn't making any move to just leave.

"I can't believe he's sleeping with you," she said at length, shaking her head a bit. "_Did_ you two elope?"

"Okay, I think that's enough talking for now," Jim replied, moving aside and gesturing towards the door of his quarters.

"But-"

"You know, Lieutenant, I think I remember another conversation you and I had about a month ago. It went something along the lines of my saying that I couldn't believe you were sleeping with Spock, and you telling me to go shove it. Do you really want to recreate it in reverse?"

Uhura paused, looking a little less certain of her position for a moment. "It never stopped you from prying anyway," she pointed out, but he could tell he'd more or less made his point. She headed for the door, hesitating a moment just before she left. Then she glanced at him. "You know Vulcans don't have sex before marriage, right?"

Jim sighed, running a hand against the back of his neck. "It's come up," he replied. "And what makes you think we're having sex anyway?" It wasn't like could have left any conspicuous clues, considering that they _weren't_.

"I saw what he did to your hand," she explained, with a little shrug. "That kind of gesture is intimate."

He smirked. "I know." His fingers were still tingling. "But he was just flirting."

Uhura blinked at him. "…_Spock_ was _flirting_ with you?" she asked incredulously. "I dated him for months and he never 'flirted' with me! He just said 'thank you, Nyota, that was an agreeable interaction'!"

Now it was Jim's turn to blink. He tried to imagine Spock saying 'thank you, Jim, that was an agreeable interaction'. His eyes would probably get that slightly teasing look, the little glint which undermined the formality of his words and conveyed the sentiment behind them, as if his response was a joke they were both in on. Then Jim would smirk, because his interactions were 'agreeable', and that meant that they were _hot_, and he'd probably say something about how he was glad Spock _approved_ just to play along…

"He's good at it," Jim concluded happily, about a million miles away. Then he thought about Spock having that same conversation with _Uhura_, and frowned. "And he gets his 'agreeable interactions' from me now." The trick to Spock was that you had to translate everything he said or did out of his strange little code. It was ironic, then, that his communications officer didn't seem to have managed it. Although some quiet, niggling part of his mind whispered that maybe she just hadn't had as much material to work with as he did.

It was a very _smug_ part of his mind.

"…I can't believe it," she concluded, as Jim gave her a sort of half-glare. "You're actually _taken_ with him, aren't you?" Her expression changed, and now she was regarding him as if he were one of those pictures that looked different depending on what angle you saw it from.

"_No,_" he scoffed. Preteens and romantic-types got 'taken'. Jim was… something less pathetic-sounding. "I'm just telling you right now not to get any ideas." Sure, Spock had said they were just friends, but Spock only spoke for himself.

Uhura paused, still just giving him that weird look. Then she shook her head, and after a tense moment on Jim's end, laughed a light, musical sort of laugh, and to his surprise finally just walked straight out of his quarters.

What the hell was so funny?

He tried to puzzle it out, but in the end found himself just coming up blank. It didn't bother him for very long, however, as the emotional exhaustion of the day eventually caught up with him, and he called it an early night. The bridge woke him up only once in the evening because the _Nelson_ was requesting the use of several of their own more advanced computer systems, and he needed to grant access.

The next morning he noticed several speculative glances that were shot at himself and his first officer, particularly when they both made their way onto the bridge, chatting quietly with one another. Jim ignored them. Though, he couldn't deny, he actually was a little curious as what sort of conclusions people were drawing.

It was down to business when they took to their posts, however, and received an update on the _Nelson'_s activities. Partway through that process, communications reported that Starfleet had finally deigned to reply with orders on how to proceed.

Jim frowned a little as he read the information patched through to him as his chair. Starfleet wanted them to secure the Klingon vessels at Vulcan II and proceed with _Nelson_ to investigate the situation at the Irri homeworld. They were also to escort the Irri back to their planet, as given the situation, the Federation did not yet wish to prosecute their actions at this time. Despite the fact that the _Enterprise_ was the primary vessel on this mission, and had been dealing the most extensively with the Irri, Starfleet wanted him to defer to Captain Malhotra's experience, and had granted her primary control over the mission. It went against usual protocols, and Jim couldn't help but be a bit defensive about it. Not only that, but sending _both_ ships to investigate seemed like a waste of resources, and left the Vulcan colony unmonitored. He was still wary about potential risks to the settlement.

But the orders were what they were. He couldn't even really complain, since it was well within the rights of the admiralty to re-assign command of a mission however they saw fit. The only thing he _could_ do would be to make a note in his captain's log and mission report protesting the shift in protocols.

Well, he'd do that. In the meantime, he supposed they'd just have to deal with it.

"Lieutenant, hail the _Nelson_," he requested once he'd finished. One 'aye, sir' and a moment later, the bridge of the other Federation vessel had appeared on screen.

"Captain Kirk," Malhotra greeted politely. He dearly hoped that she'd decided to rethink talking down to him for the time being. This would become quickly unbearable otherwise.

"Captain Malhotra," he replied. "I assume you've received the message from Starfleet Command?"

Malhotra nodded, folding her hands as the two bridge crews watched one another intently.

"Naturally," she replied. "Our teams are still working on the computer systems. We'll leave them behind for now, given that we already have crewmembers at the colony anyway, and retrieve them once our investigation is complete. Please have your people secure the scouting vessel – mine can handle the cruiser. We'll hail Vulcan II to let them know what's going on, and contact you when we're ready to proceed to Pyrius IV."

Pyrius IV was the Federation's name for the Irri homeworld. Pyrius's one through three were moons, which Jim thought was kind of odd, because in his opinion the planet full of people ought to have gotten named before all the moons. But that was neither here nor there. Malhotra seemed quite happy to start ordering him around now.

No one on his bridge seemed terribly thrilled about it.

"Alright," he agreed, trying to project an air of professionalism into his voice. Captain Malhotra smiled at him. He was given the brief impression that she actually _was_ trying to be friendly – she just wasn't very good at it.

"This should be interesting for you and your crew, Captain," she said. "I'm sure you've never performed an investigation like this. Just follow our lead, and think of it as an educational opportunity," she advised.

Jim smiled a rather stiff smile. "We'll be sure to appreciate your decades of experience," he replied, heavily implying that Malhotra and her crew were quite _old_, and then with a friendly nod had the transmission closed. He straightened in his chair, looking around the bridge at expressions which were once again decidedly ruffled. Nothing for it, really. They'd just have to get over it. "Lieutenant, contact engineering and maintenance and ask them to start converting the empty cargo bays into temporary housing for the Irri crews. We should try and get as many onboard the _Enterprise_ as we can, since our people are more familiar with the, uh, intricacies of their culture. I don't think Captain Malhotra will mind terribly if we monopolize the duties as transport shuttle. I'm going to head down to speak to our 'guest' and see if I can't find out more about what we can expect."

And also to begin the process of re-establishing Roon as the Irri's leader. "Mr. Spock-"

He'd been about to say 'you have the bridge', but Spock interrupted him first. "If I may, Captain, I would like to accompany you, to offer my unique observational skills in your discussion," he said.

Jim considered it. Spock and Roon did _not_ get along, and he suspected that if Spock got wind of what had happened in the med bay the other night, their interactions wouldn't be improved any. But, then again, everything to do with the Irri seemed to be insanely convoluted. It would probably be foolish to turn him down, or to not put enough faith in his professionalism.

"Alright, Mr. Spock, good thinking," he finally said. "Sulu, you've got the conn."

"Aye, sir."

"Try and resist the urge to ram the _Nelson_, too, if you will," he added somewhat lightly, as Spock followed him to the turbolift. There were a few scattered chuckles and snickers in their wake. It helped break some of the tension up again.

"Jim," Spock said, once the doors had closed and the lift was moving. "Was I correct in observing some veiled animosity between the _Nelson'_s crew and our own?"

He glanced at Spock, who was still primarily in 'professional' mode despite having used his first name, and then shrugged. "This was our mission. Having Starfleet hand it over to Malhotra and her crew is a little insulting. It doesn't help that they want to treat us like rookies," he explained.

Spock gave him a look. "While the crew of the _Enterprise_ is competent, it would not be unreasonable to asses that we are, in fact, 'rookies'. Malhotra has been a captain for approximately six years, according to her record, and was being considered for promotion before the Fleet's casualties necessitated a redistribution of staff. I cannot say that I essentially disagree with Starfleet's decision, and she is correct in assessing that we have never performed an investigation such as this before."

"Yeah, but it's not like we were doing a bad job here, Spock," Jim pointed out. The only real hiccough they'd had that could be tied to conduct had been the _Uwibami_'s premature drop out of warp, and that wasn't their fault. "I mean, is it going to be like this every time we have to deal with another ship? No matter what's happened, we get bumped down on the chain of command to someone more 'experienced'?" he asked.

"Of course not," Spock replied. "I would surmise that once we ourselves have become experienced, then such deference will no longer be required."

Jim got the feeling he was being teased again as the lift doors opened, and they headed for sickbay.

---

**Author's Note:** Soft, squishy underbellies abound. For those of you who are enjoying the 'Irri' arc – hurray! For those of you who aren't, it shouldn't last much longer. I've also uploaded a little tiny snippet for the Pon Farr fans as a side-story – very short and nothing steamy, but check it out if you're curious. Amok Time is still in the works, too, but not attached to the 'Home' universe, as I wanted to follow the episode fairly closely. And thank you to everyone who keeps reviewing!

Oh yes, and some people have on and off brought up the question of Spock, the Vulcan race's population problem, and procreation. This isn't going to be an issue in this story. For one thing, Vulcan/human hybrids have notoriously low survival rates, so there's a good chance that this, combined with his mixed heritage, would mean he wasn't really a very viable candidate for genetic material. Additionally, it's the 23rd century, so if they really Need Spock's Sperm, there are plenty of options for getting it that don't involve him marrying a Vulcan lady.


	25. Chapter 25

There was something of a pattern beginning here, and one which probably wasn't a good thing. It definitely made having conversations with Roon a little bit trickier – and those weren't exactly the easiest things on the planet to begin with. Between this and the other Spock, he was starting the think that his first officer had something of a proprietary streak in his relationships. Considering that made it almost a little endearing, so it was harder to get mad at him over the whole thing.

Well, for Jim, anyway.

"_Goddammit_, Spock, why in the hell did you go and nerve-pinch him again?!" Bones demanded angrily as Spock deposited the fallen Irri onto a medical bed. For the second time. And, also for the second time, he was none-too-gentle about it.

When they'd arrived at sickbay, Jim had entered first. Roon, as was becoming something of a custom for him, had moved to embrace him. Jim had stiffened, because it was decidedly uncomfortable to be hugged by someone whose sexual propositioning he'd just rejected and evening ago. And then Spock had reached over, and without missing a beat, dropped him. Again. He hadn't even batted an eyelash as he did it, as if that was the way the entire scenario had been designed to play out from the moment they walked in. Swish, grab, thump.

"My apologies for the inconvenience, Doctor," Spock said, sounding in no way apologetic. "His intentions in violating the captain's personal space were unclear. It seemed prudent to disable him."

Bones was muttering something to the general tune of 'yeah, right' as he, once again, scanned the Irri, and then woke him up with a mild stimulant.

Roon's eyes did their odd little alternating flutter as he woke and looked at the three men surrounding him. He raised a hand to his neck, darted a glance at Spock, and promptly started his vertical blinking like _crazy_.

So Jim figured that he'd completely reasoned out the trend, now, too.

Spock just stared back at him. 'Stared' was the polite way of terming it.

After an uncomfortable moment in which Jim watched his first officer glare down their alien guest, he decided enough was enough.

"Hey, Roon," he greeted. The Irri's gaze shifted over to him, and he seemed to relax marginally.

"I fell once more," Roon noted, and this time there was no confusion in his tone. If anything, there was just the vaguest hint of accusation as he glanced quickly at Spock, and then away.

Jim cleared his throat. "Uh, yeah, sorry about that. Spock's kind of…" he trailed off there, uncertain of what he could really say. It wasn't like Spock was violent, or aggressive. Defensive? But, no, that didn't quite fit either.

"As first officer, I have a responsibility to protect my captain. If you persist in your efforts to violate his personal space, then you will suffer appropriate repercussions for these actions," Spock supplied helpfully. Jim noticed that he wasn't accusing Roon of trying to 'attack' him anymore.

"Oh, Jesus…" Bones muttered to himself, momentarily planting his face into his palm.

Roon looked over at Spock, and then moved so that he was a bit further away from both the first officer and the captain. He actually seemed genuinely frightened as he started blinking again. "I will stop," he said, perhaps just a touch forlornly.

Great. Now Jim felt bad.

"Then this miscommunication has been resolved," Spock replied, and to his relief, actually backed off a little bit himself.

Bones cleared his throat. "Great. Now that the damn alien _pissing contest_ over Jim has reached its 'logical' conclusion, can we move on?" he asked. "What're you two doing down here anyway? Other than making my life difficult, I mean."

"We need to ask Roon some questions," Jim answered him. "Starfleet's orders came in. We're to proceed with the _Nelson_ to Pyrius IV, along with the Irri crews. I'll need his help moving them into the ships, especially the ones who'll have to go aboard the _Nelson_, and figuring out where on the planet they come from. And then I want to talk to you about Project Not Getting Five Hundred People Killed."

"Ah. Gotcha," Bones replied understandingly. "Well, ask him your questions, I've got a few physicals to look over. Come get me when you need me."

Jim nodded, then returned his attention to Roon, who seemed a little bit nervous to see the doctor leave. It was as if it were finally beginning to dawn on the Irri that he really was with _aliens_, because clearly, something about Spock's behavior had surprised him. He relaxed a bit when Jim started asking him questions, though, and seemed pleased by the idea of having his people brought aboard. The concept of the _Nelson_ was, eventually, conveyed as an 'ally'. As near as Jim could figure, that meant the Irri sent aboard there would behave themselves, and do as Captain Malhotra asked unless Jim told them not to.

"You are lending your strength," Roon had said, nodding in understanding.

He was still incredibly apprehensive about the whole situation nonetheless. All the things that could go wrong – cultural misunderstandings, problems with the _Nelson'_s crew, the Irri learning how to operate all of the ship's systems and subdue the Starfleet officers in order to steal their vessels… he was aware of the potential problems. But, he mused, that seemed to be part of the job of being captain – worrying a hell of a lot more than he ever had before.

Or maybe it just came with having responsibilities in general.

When he'd gotten all he thought he'd get, more or less, he had Ensign Mercado take Roon to the cargo bays with instructions to help him make certain his people would be comfortable for the trip, and then went in for his 'conference' with Bones and Spock.

"I think I should just lose to him," Jim said off the bat. "We'll do it right when we get to the planet. He can beat me in the rec room or something, and then we'll just beam the Irri down. I've already fought him before."

Neither first officer nor CMO seemed terrible pleased with this conclusion. "Goddammit, Jim, you know the human body has limits, right? You can't take another shit-kicking, it ain't healthy. Even by _your_ standards," Bones informed him, scowling rather sternly.

"I concur with Doctor McCoy," Spock said, too serious to even make a jab at said doctor even as he did so. "Needlessly endangering the well-being of the ship's captain is illogical, and you have only recently recovered from your previous injuries. I believe that I would make a suitable replacement. My Vulcan physiology would be able to withstand the necessary assault."

Jim shook his head, giving Spock a stubborn look. "No," he said. "I appreciate it, Spock, but you're a bad choice. Roon's _frightened_ by you. He might just concede, if it came to it," he pointed out. "Besides, I don't like it. I'm not going to ask someone else on this ship to get beat up for my mistake. I'll do it," he insisted. "It's not like it'd be hard – I'll let him hit me once, I'll go down and stay down. They'll probably think it's because I _want_ him to win. Which is true, just not for the reasons Roon thinks."

Spock shot him a hard look. "You are being unreasonable," he said, dropping his voice a little. Jim didn't know if it was intentionally done or not. "It is possible that the other Irri do not share the same views on intentionally lost challenges. Given that they have already witnessed you defeat their leader, if that is the case, it is unlikely they will be appeased by an obviously staged failure."

"He's got a point, Jim," Bones agreed. "I know you don't want to see any of the crew get hurt, but you're not the only one who can take a hit."

They were both making sense. He knew that. But he also remembered how hard that last hit from Roon had been, and if there was some kind of accident during the fight… he wasn't going to lose a crewmember over this.

"Captain," Spock said, in a tone which implied that he'd just figured something else out. "There is another reason why a substitution may be more prudent. As you observed, I appear to have somehow intimidated the Irri's former leader when I established the inadvisability of assaulting you. He may, therefore, be reticent to accept any challenge you issue."

Jim thought about this.

Slowly, a plan began to form in his head. "I think I've got it," he said. And while it wasn't ideal, it would probably qualify as the best solution so far.

He laid out the plan for Bones and Spock, who were understandably not _thrilled_, but in the end relented and agreed to it. They didn't have much choice, really – he was the one with the captain's stripes. Not that he wanted to be a dick about it.

There was still some time before the plan could be implemented, however, given it would take them about half a day to get to Pyrius IV once the _Nelson_ decided to they should set out. So he found himself overseeing the transfers of the Irri crew and, along with Uhura, advising the _Nelson's_ people on their culture and necessary conduct. In a way, it was more exhausting than running around an uncharted alien world. It was definitely less fun. The strained politeness between the bridge crews seemed to be consistent ship-wide, and everybody was stepping on everyone else's toes. The _Enterprise_ was being sarcastic and impertinent. The _Nelson_ was being condescending and bossy. It wasn't a flattering display for either crew, although it never descended past the standards of professionalism.

Jim found himself pulling double shifts as minor issues and duties and countless problems requiring his attention cropped up one after another. He had to look over everything to do with the Irri, given that his authority was the authority they responded to now, and they _really_ didn't need any more complications with these people. It didn't help that the _Nelson_ wasn't exactly impressed with his 'leadership' status, and he could tell some of them were just itching to give him a lecture about it.

It finally happened during one of his transmissions with the _Nelson's_ first officer, as, apparently, his security teams had locked down the weapons systems on the Klingon ships, and the _Nelson_ wanted to reset the codes. They provided him with a very convoluted reason, citing security regulations left and right and making him grit his teeth and wonder if they were really just trying to get him to snap.

"You know, Captain," said Commander Thorne, who wasn't actually that much older than Jim. "You would have been better served to contact Starfleet and send for a trained cultural expert before you initiated contact with the Irri crew. Especially once the uniqueness of their situation was known."

Jim had really wanted to punch the communications console. He was on the bridge, and half of the crew there had heard the comment.

"I don't think that has anything to do with security codes, Commander," he'd replied a little tensely.

"Fascinating," he heard Spock say from behind him, and glanced over his shoulder to see that his first officer had moved a few steps towards him and was staring at Commander Thorne. "Your assessment of the captain's actions fails to account for the necessity of communicating with the crew in order to establish their situation in the first place. Additionally, your choice of wording – that it was 'made known' – implies that it was not, in fact, the captain himself who initially theorized, and later confirmed, what had transpired," he noted.

The bridge had gone quiet, as most everyone had looked towards the captain and first officer.

"I can only conclude that either your logic is flawed, or you are being intentionally antagonistic," Spock added. "I would advise that if your intent is the latter, you would be 'better served' to expend your energies elsewhere."

There was a moment of silence.

"Thank you, Mr. Spock, I think you've admirably expressed your point to the commander," Jim said, feeling simultaneously happy to be defended (and see Thorne get talked down to), and a little embarrassed at being so defended on his own bridge. Still. Nobody threw back 'condescending' quite like Spock did.

Thorne was offended and almost sullen after that as Jim forwarded the codes, but when he cut the connection there was a small smattering of applause directed towards his first officer. He suspected Chekov started it, but didn't actually see. It only lasted a moment, and Spock looked a little taken aback. Particularly when Jim caught on and joined in for a couple beats at the end.

"Way to tell him, sir," Sulu said with a slight grin from his station.

"Alright, alright," Jim broke in, and made a slight 'shoo' motion with his arm to indicate that play time was over, and everyone needed to get back to work. "Show's over. Mr. Spock, I know they're annoying, but try not to let it get to you."

Spock stiffened, but there was no genuine reprimand in Jim's demeanor. "I was merely responding appropriately to the commander's lack of professionalism," he said.

_He started it,_ that meant. Jim grinned.

"Duly noted," he assured his first officer, and after that, it was business as usual again. When they finally went into warp it was like the entire ship breathed a collective sigh of relief – cargo holds full of alien guests notwithstanding. Communications and security, who'd suffered the biggest slights from the _Nelson_, were residually bristly, though. Still. If he'd thought he might be starting to win over Giotto before, having another Starfleet security chief actually come and stomp all over his job (as compared to Jim's own more reasonable interferences) had definitely earned him some free extra points. As annoying as having the _Nelson_ around was, it was also solidifying them as a crew a little more.

Then again, he didn't want the animosity towards another Starfleet vessel to get too high. That would just earn them a lot of trouble.

He was partway through his second shift, and they'd been in warp for some time, when it finally came time to launch Project Not Getting Five Hundred People Killed. They'd be dropping out of it, soon, and beaming the Irri back home.

Jim headed down to the cargo holds. Uhura had the conn because he'd brought Spock and Sulu with him. After some debate and discussion, it was decided that Sulu would be the best candidate for a certain position. Mostly because Jim knew the guy could move, and he wasn't suffering from the same surliness that most of Security was just then. His eyes were pretty big when he got the run-down on the way, though.

"Think you can handle it?" Jim asked.

At that, Sulu straightened, and got his 'business' face on. "You've got it, Captain," he replied resolutely.

Which was a good thing, because it would have been awkward if he'd said 'no' and they'd had to go and track down someone else. At the same time, Jim was hoping this whole thing would go down so that Sulu's presence wasn't actually required.

The Irri were quiet when they entered Cargo Bay 1, but it wasn't the tense kind of quiet which they'd shown on the Klingon ships. Just their nature, economic nature, Jim suspected, as they sat or stood in little pocket groups, a few of them actually looking a little cozy with one another. He was starting to see where Roon got his 'hugging' thing from, apart from the whole 'want to get it on?' issue, because the Irri looked to be hug kind of people when they weren't frightened.

"Captain Kirk!" Roon greeted, and several faces turned to him. Anyone he looked at gave him a vertical blink. There were several security personnel milling quietly about who also came to attention at that, and Bones, who'd apparently beaten them there.

"About time, Jim," the doctor muttered when they came over.

And then it was time for the games to begin.

"Roon!" Jim greeted with enthusiasm, and then marched straight up to the Irri leader and gave him a hug. The big guy was very tense, although with his build, it was a little hard to tell. When Jim let go of him, he was looking at Spock – and blinking. Lots.

Probably not a good sign for things to go his way with this.

He cleared his throat anyway, and tried to seem roguishly appealing. It was only as he did so that he realized how long it had been since he'd actively put a lot of effort into his flirting – with Spock it just sort of happened. "I've been thinking about it, and I've decided I'd like you to master me." _Damn_, that was really weird to have flying out of his mouth. It grated against his captainly instincts. "So I'm going to challenge you."

For a minute, he thought it might have worked. Then Roon calmly but firmly pulled him away, and, to Jim's shock, actually patted him on the head. "I am a coward," he said. "I do not accept." Despite his word-choice, his tone implied more that Jim was nuts than that Roon was actually feeling self-deprecating.

Jim tried to rile him up a bit. He even went for the no-balls hand gesture, and even though that did get him something of a glare, none of it worked.

It was time for Plan B, which _sucked_.

Spock strode forward after a minute, and grabbed Jim. As he did this, Bones slipped Sulu a hyprospray on the sly. "Captain," he said. "I am betraying you out of an impulse of rage inspired by your attempts to submit to Chlaloon'ch'Pahalgren-roon's dominance." Then he reached over and grabbed Jim's face. "I am now using the Vulcan Death Grip."

There was a bit of a buzz, a strangely sweet sensation as his fist first officer's fingertips pressed against his skin, and then a light 'tap' and he felt the dark swell of a nerve-pinch overwhelm his consciousness.

So. Spock would never be a thespian. Well, they weren't exactly aiming for a lot of subtlety here, or else he was certain his first officer would have employed some. But the important thing was to plow through the language barrier, really.

Jim went out like a light, which sadly meant he missed the rest of the show. So he didn't get to see Sulu fly into his own fit of 'rage' (apparently, his helmsman actually _did_ have acting skills, and how) and 'challenge' Spock, 'killing' him and then subtly injecting him with a hypospray full of one of Bones' many interesting chemicals. He also didn't get to see his helmsman get called out for using a 'weapon' in combat (apparently he hadn't been sneaky enough, and the little 'whoosh' sound did him in), but even though that was unplanned, it ended up working to their benefit, because then Roon challenged Sulu (as opposed to Sulu challenging Roon, as initially anticipated), Sulu threw the fight, and the Irri had their leader back. According to Bones, Roon went pretty easy on Sulu, too, as he was a little choked up about Jim's 'death'.

The Irri leader had all kinds of interesting ideas now that he was 'master' of the _Enterprise_. Unfortunately, he was then introduced to the concept of mutiny as the cargo holds were locked down, and the ship dropped out of warp. It probably wouldn't end up creating the best diplomatic atmosphere, but, Jim lamented, that was likely unavoidable. He didn't want to own _or_ kill five hundred people. He just wasn't into those particular varieties of power.

He woke up in sickbay with a killer headache. Vulcan nerve-pinches to the head were, as volunteered by Spock, able to simulate death, but hurt like a bitch. Jim had been the one to come up with the 'death grip' part, although his first officer had declined to shout aloud 'Vulcan Death Grip Attack!' as initially suggested. Bones injected him full of something for the pain, and then it was back up to the bridge to hail the _Nelson_, and figure out how they were going to proceed.

If it had been up to Jim, the first priority would have been to scan the planet from long-range (as long as they could get away with, in fact) for signs of the Irri's ship-crashing machine. If they couldn't turn up anything, the next course of action would have been to inch within transporter range, and get an away team ready for some footwork. They knew from Roon what part of the planet they were looking at, and aiming for large structures would have probably yielded the best results. Disabling the weapon would be priority one, since it posed the biggest threat. Investigating the Klingons' possible source of motivations would qualify as 'priority two'. Technically, the Irri's own mangled developmental situation would have been the Federation's issue now, but for Jim, 'priority three' would have been trying to see how much he could help with that.

It was actually a little annoying that his plan was pretty much the same as Malhotra's. Because, really, it just emphasized to him the pointlessness of having his control of the mission taken away. He was _good_ at his job, dammit.

But he stood on his bridge and, like a proper officer, had his teams scan for signs of strange devices and energy signals anyway.

The scans picked up a whole lot more than that.

"Keptan…" Chekov had said slowly from his post, and the tone of his voice had brought Jim over to his station. The ensign swallowed, hard, his eyes absolutely enormous as he stared at his console. "According to readings, half of the planet's southern continent is completely irradiated. Additionally, there are seweral other highly damaged areas, including a western corner of the northern continent, and much dewastation along the south-western shoreline…"

Jim could see. He was leaning over his shoulder, looking at the same readouts. A cold feeling settled in his gut. Pyrius IV was like nuclear swiss-cheese.

"Settlements?" he asked grimly. _I don't want to see another planet die._

Even if it was a slower, different kind of death.

"The settlement we are needing appears to be largely intact," Chekov said, which was a relief. Although Jim didn't feel too hot about returning a group of people to a planet that was slowly cooking itself in radiation, one blast zone at a time. "Keptan… the planetary population is only two million."

A low, low number, especially for a world that size.

"I know, Chekov," he said quietly, glancing at the teenager's stricken expression. "Keep scanning. We need to figure out where that weapon is, and what it's capable of." He was definitely leaning against the away-team idea now. Not if they were going to come back lit up like Christmas trees. Considering the state of their world, it was surprising that the Irri onboard hadn't tested positive for radiation poisoning. But then again, they were an alien species.

If their physical forms reacted differently to it, then perhaps that might explain how their war was able to escalate to such heights. The poison hurt their world more than it hurt them.

"Sir," Sulu said. "The _Nelson_ is changing course. They're moving closer to the planet's range."

Jim frowned. "Hail them," he instructed, turning back toward Uhura, who opened a frequency to the other ship. "_Nelson_, why are you moving closer?" Had their people completed their scans already?

"Not all of us have state-of-the art ships, _Enterprise_," Malhotra's even, polite tones informed him. "We aren't quite within scanning range yet."

Oh. Sometimes he forgot how cutting-edge some of his ship's features were, even compared to vessels just a year or two older. "We can handle the scans," he volunteered. After all, information was information, regardless of who was picking it up.

"Don't be over-cautious, Captain. We won't enter the planet's orbit," Malhotra replied.

Thus marked the first time anyone had ever accused Jim of excessive caution. He shared his incredulous glance with his crew and looked over to Spock, who, in turn had arched a rather skeptical eyebrow. Uhura was staring at her own station as if it had suddenly started speaking in a language she actually didn't understand.

"I don't think-" he began, but what he didn't think was cut off as he heard an alert go off at Chekov's station.

"Sir!" the young ensign said at the same time. "Enemy wessels are approaching from the opposite side of the planet. They are Klingon!"

"How many?" he demanded, moving instantly back to his command seat.

"Sensors are showing three, all unidentified. There could be more, Keptan, the planet is creating a huge blind-spot," Chekov replied.

"Shields up, charge phasers. Are you getting anything, _Nelson?_" Jim said back into the open channel.

"We're only picking up two of the vessels, _Enterprise,_" the reply came back. Well, that was unhelpful, but not exactly their fault. "Remain at your current position. We'll let them make the first move." The channel was cut, then, and Uhura opened another one so they could listen in as Malhotra sent the standard 'identify yourselves' transmission out in the general direction of the Klingon ships. Jim appreciated the fact that, apparently, he didn't even need to ask her to spy on conversations for them anymore.

"Captain," Sulu said from his station. He'd returned to his duties after the fight, which was actually a little reassuring. It meant he hadn't been hurt badly enough for Bones to declare him unfit. "Sensors read high concentrations of dilithium in the irradiated areas of the planet's surface."

"What?" Jim asked, turning in his seat to gape at his helmsman. There had been no mention of dilithium in any of the planetary reports for Pyrius IV. And it would have been mentioned – even on undeveloped worlds, the Federation, the Klingons… pretty much _any_ space-faring group was interested in dilithium.

If it was there, he didn't know how someone could have missed it. But it would explain the Klingons' interest.

"This just gets better and better," he muttered to himself as the three enemy cruisers came into view on screen. Such questions would have to wait until the immediate problem was dealt with, at least. Their 'visitors' hadn't responded to the _Nelson's_ hails. They'd taken on an aggressive formation with their shields raised and weapons charged, but for a few minutes, it seemed like they were content to simply face-off.

Psychological warfare?

Then the ship rocked. Alarms blared and emergency alert lights suddenly flashed into action as a great, invisible shudder ran through the bridge, accompanied by a high-pitched whining sound.

"Captain! Systems report multiple failures – internal and external sensors are offline. I believe shields are down and engines are damaged!" Spock said from his station, his voice raised and a hard, quiet pain signaling itself through the rigidity of his stance and the actual _wince_ on his face. The sounds was much louder to him.

Which was nowhere near as important as the fact that Kirk thought he knew what was happening. "They've got the Irri's weapon," he concluded. Then the viewscreen went dark – another system failure. They were blind as bats, shaking and falling apart at the seams. If shields went down and the Klingons fired, they would be dead. "We need to find a way to jam the signal from that weapon! I want us broadcasting every single fucking sound in our database on every channel we can manage! Tell me communications is still working?"

"Aye, sir!" Uhura said sharply from her post. There was a frantic lurch of movement as the area surrounding her station was suddenly filled with the nearest bridge crew members, hurrying to carry out orders. He was relying on the assumption that the Irri device was using a transmission of some kind to scramble their operating systems.

But it was possible that sound wouldn't be enough to do the trick. "Chekov! Start modulating our shield frequencies," he instructed, before leaning over to strike a button on his armrest which formed his com link to engineering. "Scotty, do you read?"

"Internal com system is down now, Captain! I… think," an ensign whose name he really just couldn't remember right then informed him. With shipwide sensors down as well, it was nearly impossible to tell what systems were functioning until they tried to use them.

Jim swore, and almost sprang from his seat. His instinct was to run down, to tell Scotty to start blasting the space around them with as much interference from the engines as he could, but he couldn't leave the bridge.

He sent the ensign instead, and hoped Scotty would have already gotten the idea himself. If they even knew what was going _on_ down there in Engineering.

"Keptan!" he heard Chekov exclaim, and then, abruptly, the noise stopped. The ship's rocking came to a halt as well, although the emergency lights were still flashing, and systems had still failed.

"Shields?" he asked.

"Up and in constant modulation," the young Russian replied, his fingers moving across his console as he kept the frequencies changing. "I cannot tell what percentage of power we are at."

"As long as we're not sitting naked," Jim replied. They were still blind. But at least they weren't coming apart at the seams anymore. He took a breath, the adrenaline buzzing through his head as he stared at the blank viewscreen, and quickly ran over their next step.

It was just one breath.

Then there was a surge across the bridge's consoles, residual overload from the sudden and violent abuse they'd just endured. Several stations blew, and there were cries of pain and alarm. Jim was nearly thrown from his chair and earned himself a nasty burn when his armrest began to spark.

But that didn't catch his attention nearly so much as the science station. Because it had blown, too, and from the side of his vision all he could see was a mass of sparks, and then came the scent of scorched flesh as his first officer flew backwards and hit the deck.

He didn't get back up.

"_Spock!"_

---

**Author's Notes:** Well, I suppose this is a good time to tell you all that I'll be going on hiatus. After my brief difficulties in writing this part of the story, I feel that – _kidding_. Only Mirror!Me would do that to you guys. Sorry for the delay! Also, if you're as sad as Jim that you had to miss Sulu's mad acting skills, (downside of single-perspective – unconsciousness sucks) my brain's stubborn trickery prompted work on two other pieces – Amok Time and Gossip, the latter of which has Sulu's scene in it from his perspective, and should be posted on my profile now.


	26. Chapter 26

At some point in time, the universe had begun to shift around Captain James T. Kirk.

A space which had originally only been Jim-sized had been expanded, built upon, and slowly reshaped in order to accommodate another one beside him. A space which was distinctly Spock-sized. An increasingly shrinking part of Jim claimed utter ignorance of this change. Another was convinced that it would just be temporary. But he was only really thrown into stark, sharp, undeniably conscious awareness of it when he was faced with the sudden prospect of finding it irrevocably emptied.

He was across the bridge and on his knees next to his first officer before he'd ever realized he'd moved, turning him over and taking in with a kind of chilling horror the burnt flesh along one side of his face, oozing green and charred black. The internal com systems were down. He reached around, slinging one of Spock's arms over his shoulder and working his own beneath his legs, trying to be careful of his injuries…

"Captain," he heard Uhura say, a hand falling on his shoulder and squeezing too tightly. "We need you here. Everything's gone insane!"

"I have to -"

"I've got him," he heard Sulu say suddenly, and a moment later the helmsman was beside him, and then hands were working against his, unwinding him from Spock. He wanted to resist. He was stiff with shock, and the cold, silent feel of Spock's skin where it met the touch of his hands.

No more buzz.

If he wasn't breathing, Jim would have thought he was dead.

But he could hear the cries of the other injured bridge crew, and see the flashing lights, and knew that they were panicking. Everyone was panicking – everything was chaos. His ship had gone to hell in a matter of minutes, flying blind and with only Chekov's quick thinking and swift movements keeping them from rocketing apart again. So he let Sulu take Spock, looking up as he did into the other man's grim, horrified face, and knowing that he had to trust.

Because he couldn't leave.

"We need sensors and communications back," he said abruptly, his voice rough and sounding like it was a million miles away as he stood up. There was green blood on his hands. He moved over to the science station, forgoing the instinct to go back to this chair, and found his mind kicking into crisis mode. Step one, maintain their defense. Step two, assess the damages. Step three, repair the most immediate problems in order to enable the ship to free itself from danger…

He sent the rest of the seriously injured to sickbay, straight-off, and then with words that sounded like they were coming from somewhere else entirely assigned a gold-clad lieutenant to help Chekov maintain their shield modulations. Then he whipped underneath the science station and reached under until he found the emergency spanner, and unceremoniously ripped the melted console off, exposing the systems underneath the interface. The sensors were hooked up the most thoroughly to the bridge. He needed to find the branching-out point of the damage, and that would be dangerous, as everything was still crackling and flaring intermittently. Once he'd located the area, he could assign someone to fix it, but he wasn't letting anyone else mess around in this. "Weapons?" he asked, tracing the burnt systems to their source.

Someone answered to tell him that they couldn't tell if they were operational or not. He moved further down, ripping off another, less-damaged console top as he followed his path. Sensors. They needed to _see_.

The ship rocked again, and Jim nearly put his hand into a nest of wires that would have rendered him a very dead man indeed. He wished he knew more about engineering, he had a feeling this would be going a lot easier if he did.

"I think we're under fire, sir!" an unnamed ensign said. She'd taken Sulu's station.

They couldn't risk shooting blind, even if their weapons were working. "Uhura! Communications?" he asked, knowing he needed to get his ship _organized_ again.

"We're scrambled, sir," she said, and there was a definite note of fear to her voice. There was fear to all their voices, except for Jim's, which was just strangely hard and sharp.

"Take your emergency vocal amplifier," he said. Fancy name for an electronic bullhorn, really. "Go through the decks. I want the Irri to stay contained and I want the sensors back…" he trailed off for a moment as he was burned again, but somehow didn't even flinch. "Get security to close off the lower levels and have engineering re-route power to make sure we don't lose the shields." They were probably the only thing keeping them alive. "Find out if transporters are working. If they are, we might be able to redirect sensors through their locking systems." The last he added with the same rough detachment as the rest. "Have the emergency shuttles readied, too. Grab anyone you need to spread word faster." At least the environmental systems and life support still seemed to be working.

He was smearing green blood on everything. On the sparking, spitting cables of his torn apart ship.

And then he found it. Overloaded. Almost completely melted. It was the connector that hooked up the bridge's system _to_ the sensors, and he blinked, not really feeling hopeful but knowing there was hope that the sensors themselves could be restored if this one part was replaced.

He sent the lieutenant helping Chekov to engineering. They needed an engineer, and they needed the replacement parts. Now there were only three people on the bridge – himself, Chekov, and another ensign who was trying to establish just what _could_ work. Jim moved to help modulate the shield frequencies. He was nowhere near as fast as his swiftly tiring ensign, but he managed all the same.

It seemed like a small eternity of numbers and numbness and the motion of his own burnt, stained hands before the lift open, and the lieutenant returned along with Sulu and an engineer who looked like he'd seen better days. Jim directed him curtly to the source of the problem, and then moved over to one of the computer consoles. If the systems were scrambled then it was likely the frequency of the 'shouting' device had affected the operating interfaces more than the actual hardware itself. _This_, Jim could deal with. This was programming. His first thought was to just completely shut down the entire computer system and then reboot it – always a standard. But a little more complex on a starship. If they shut down the computer system, they'd lose shields for at least thirty seconds.

More than enough time to get blown up by Klingon cruisers. Sensors were looking even more imperative.

There was a shock, a burst, a shout. He turned, and grimly noted that the engineer had badly damaged his hand. The man endured the pain, and Jim sent Sulu over to follow his instructions and help finish the repairs. He tried to figure out if they could reboot while still keeping the shields operating by isolating that part of the system, but with everything so damaged, even finding the right system to isolate was impossible.

Dimly, some part of his mind noted that they hadn't been shaken up by any further phaser fire. "Are external communications down?" he asked. The young ensign moved over to Uhura's station and checked.

"I think we're still broadcasting our interference noise," she said. There was a question – which of the things they'd done had actually stopped the assault on them? If any of them had? He was fairly certain it was the shields, but that could be coincidence.

Time to take a risk.

"Stop the transmissions, ensign. Slowly," he advised. The tension was thick in the air as his request was obliged, but there was no great shuddering of the ship, no resuming of the initial, devastating attack. "Good. Try and get a signal to the _Nelson_." They could only hope that the other vessel's external communications systems were working as well.

"Yes, sir," the ensign replied.

"How much longer until we can see if we have sensors back?" Jim demanded of the engineer and Sulu.

"Almost there, captain," the engineer replied stoically, his face covered in a sheen of sweat as he held his injured hand against himself. Dimly, Jim was aware that he should feel badly for the man. But he was flying on complete autopilot now – if he let himself feel bad at all, it would be like pulling a structural support from a tower.

There was something very chilling about the _quiet_ of the bridge for the next few minutes. Because it was a crisis, and so there should have been a hundred things going on at once, and the sense of urgency was there. But with the systems down, the bridge became an almost useless place to be. It unsettled him – it was like having his hands cut off.

"Got it, captain!" Sulu declared, and then Jim was off again, moving to try and activate the sensors – internal, external, at least _something_. The interface system was still messed up, and he couldn't get a lot of it to read properly, but they were getting information – it was working.

They could finally start pulling their heads above the water now.

With determination, Jim prioritized finding out what was going on in the space _beyond_ the ship as the most pressing need. He sent their engineer to sickbay – Bones was probably living in hell right now – and tried to see their enemies. It was a bit like fumbling his way through a dark room with a pin-light, since a lot of the data which came through wasn't translated from its base codes into a more interpretable form for him, but eventually he managed to assess that the _Nelson_ was still out there. Status unclear, but there were also two fewer Klingon ships and a whole lot of debris.

The darker side within him hoped he'd get a crack at the one left.

"Any response from the _Nelson?_" he asked.

"I… can't really tell, sir," the ensign at communications confessed. Jim moved over to the station, but while it wasn't as damaged as others, Uhura had been accurate when she'd said it was fairly scrambled. It would take someone more familiar with it than either of them to figure out what the hell was going on.

"Go find Lieutenant Uhura," he instructed. "If she's still working on her assignment," which was likely, "take over for her." He should have had someone else do it in the first place, he realized, but Uhura was communications, so it had made sense to send her off to communicate.

"Sir," Sulu said, from where he'd returned to the helm. "Navigation is back online. Should I move us?"

Jim thought about it, but almost immediately shook his head. "We don't have any idea what condition the engines are in," he reasoned. He didn't want to kill anybody in engineering. Or blow up the ship. A warpcore breach would be just terrific now – they probably wouldn't be able to get the ejection system working.

A few minutes later, the turbolift doors opened to reveal an Uhura who looked like she'd just run a mile. "I saw Spock," were the first words out of her mouth, and they caused Jim to freeze up. "He's stable."

Very slowly, Jim offered her a nod. He couldn't deal with it right now. He'd managed to avoid even thinking his first officer's name since he let Sulu cart him off the bridge, and if he started down that road, something told him he'd make for a pretty shitty captain in a hurry. Nevertheless, he felt some of the hollowness inside of him fade away a little bit.

"We need to get through to the _Nelson_. They might know more about what's happening, and whether or not we can lower shields," he replied.

Uhura's expression shifted a little, as if she wasn't sure what to make of him, but then she moved over to her station and swiftly got to work.

Jim moved back to the sensors, and started trying to get scans of the internal systems, to figure out what was going on within the ship now. If two of the Klingon cruisers had been destroyed then it stood to reason that the _Enterprise_ had been fired on first, and the _Nelson_ had somehow – hopefully – managed to avoid attack. Or at least the kind of attack which they'd just suffered through. At that point, he didn't care how much he disliked the _Nelson'_s crew, he would sing their praises for months if they helped get them out of this mess.

The sound of the turbolift opening again caught his attention. He looked over, and was surprised to see Ensign Mercado stumble in. She had a bruise the size of a grapefruit on her face, and going off of the way she was moving, that wasn't her only injury. "Captain," she said. "The locking systems on all the doors have failed – the Irri are loose."

Jim considered this. After a moment he decided that, yes, this qualified as the single worst mission they'd had since the _Narada_ incident.

"What are they doing?" he asked.

Mercado sagged a bit against the nearest wall. "Going insane."

"You'll need to be more specific, Ensign," he said, maybe just a little harshly, but Uhura had started to pop some of his 'autopilot' bubble, and now he was beginning to feel it. "Are they running around trying to kill people? Smashing things? Fighting one another? What?"

"All of that, sir," Mercado admitted, looking a little cowed. "We – Security, I mean – tried to stop them, but they're not even acting themselves at all. We've… several were shot, and there have been casualties, sir." She swallowed, hard, and looked decidedly shaken at that.

Casualties.

It would have probably been naïve to think they'd get through this without any.

Either way, this issue clearly required his immediate attention. They'd never fix anything if there was a group of homicidal aliens on a murderous rampage to contend with. He wasn't entirely certain what he could do, but given that he'd lost his leadership over them because they thought he was dead, then maybe his being alive would have an effect. A complicated, long-term messy effect, and it wouldn't accomplish much if they were too crazy to realize. But he couldn't think of anything else.

"Uhura," he said. "Keep trying to get through to the _Nelson_. Mr. Sulu, I'm giving you the bridge. Use your best judgment." It was, in the end, the only advice he could really give the other man. Then he got a phaser off of Mercado – barely charged, but better than nothing – and made his way from the bridge, instructing the ensign to stay behind and catch her breath, since she looked on the verge of collapse.

Some of the emergency lights in the corridors had failed. It gave his usually bright ship an uncannily dark feeling as he headed for the cargo holds.

It didn't take him long to track down the location of the problem. He could hear the phaser fire from well away, in addition to cries of alarm and a dull, erratic pounding which reverberated slightly through the deck. He flattened himself to one side of the corridor as a streamer of orange-red light erupted through the air ahead of him, firing from around a bend in the passage. There were shouts – he made out a few words, 'get down' and 'fuck' and other such common phrases for when the shit had hit the fan.

He had to assume, since Ensign Mercado had made it to the bridge, that he was coming around on the 'friendly' side of the fight. Which meant that the Irri had somehow gotten their hands on at least one phaser.

Brilliant.

On the off chance that Mercado had gotten to the bridge by shimmying through the life support system, and had neglected to mention that fact, Jim moved as quietly as he could to peer around the corridor and take stock of the situation. Immediately, he decided that he was going to recommend his security team for some kind of commendation when they got out of this. Somehow they'd managed to remove the doors from several of the smaller storage rooms, and had used them to create a blockade, keeping the Irri from progressing further into the ship. The doors, the walls, and the floor around them were scorched black with phaser burns, and he could see three uniformed bodies from where he stood – two on his side of the barricade, and one on the other. There were also two dead Irri. But he knew there were probably more beyond his view, because he could only count six security personnel holed up behind the doors. Giotto was one of them.

Jim dropped low and made his way over, the motion attracting attention and causing one of the Irri to open fire on him. He rolled and skidded, and a hand clasped his arm and pulled him completely free of the immediate line of danger.

"Captain," Giotto said grimly.

"Have any gotten out?" Jim asked without preamble. He needed to know if there were Irri running around the ship beyond this point.

"No," the security chief replied with conviction. "We've had to shoot down about ten of them, though. Phasers were set to stun, but it seems to hurt them more than you'd think. They took down about a dozen of my officers in the first wave. I don't know if all of them are dead, but they're beyond reach right now. We tried reasoning with them. They aren't even talking – either locking them in worked them into a worse state than we'd thought, or something set them off. I think it was that sound that came with the first attack. Afterwards we started hearing pounding, before the doors opened, but it's been too much of a madhouse to tell anything for certain."

The run-down came to an abrupt end when there was another pounding sound, and then Jim stared at the barrier of doors in shock as something struck them with a sharp 'bang', setting his teeth on edge and making his ears ring as he nearly jumped out of his skin.

"What the hell was that?"

"Cargo container," Giotto replied. "They've been taking turns flinging them at us when they find them."

Jim considered this. "Good," he said. The security officers looked at him like he was crazy, and he elaborated. "The Irri tire quickly. If they're flinging containers it will take a lot of energy out of them."

"So that's what you think, Captain?" a lieutenant whose name he couldn't recall asked him. "We should wait them out?"

"I'd rather have them collapse from exhaustion than kill them," Jim reasoned.

"Which is fine so long as they don't bring down the barrier, but those containers are making a dent," Giotto pointed out. "And there's enough of them doing it so that they don't all get worn down."

"Then we should find other ways of tiring them out," he concluded. The security chief was right, as sturdy as the _Enterprise'_s doors were, the cargo containers weren't exactly slouches, either, and he could see that some of the barricade had already been worn down. His mind started working in overtime for a solution.

"Sickbay," he concluded.

"What?" Giotto asked, looking at him like he'd grown another head.

Jim ignored it. "I've got a plan." Clearly, he wasn't going to be able to talk his way through this one, as he'd initially hoped. The Irri weren't in a chatty mood, and he hadn't even seen Roon. "I'll be back," he assured his security officers, and then got ready to move again. He was staid a moment by another grip on his arm.

"Listen," Giotto said. "We need reinforcements and more phasers. They're nearly out of charge, but so are we, and if we can't get any shots in there's nothing to stop them from just rushing us."

Jim wordlessly handed over the phaser he'd taken from Mercado. Not much, but they'd be better off with it then him. "I'll send who I can," he assured the man. "Just hold them off a little longer."

Then he ran.

He made record time to the medical bay, passing several very frightened-looking officers enroute. One he sent to track down a weapons locker, with instructions to retrieve several phaser rifles and take them to the cargo deck, the others he just sent straight down unless they were doing something else of pressing importance to the ship.

When he got to sickbay, he learned that his earlier assessment had been correct. It was hell.

He forced himself not to look for Spock. It took an almost physical effort, like ripping something out of him, but he did it. There wasn't the time, and if he… there wasn't the time. Instead he bee-lined straight for Bones' office, which was, in the hectic chaos of emergency medical care, naturally empty. He could hear his friend's voice shouting, and had to push through the activity of nurses and aids as people with burns and broken bones and other injuries were tended to at a frantic, prioritized pace. He all but ripped open the drawers of the CMO's desk, rifling through the contents until he found a tricorder, a hypospray, and something which he didn't recognize the name of, but which had several components that caught his attention.

It took him twenty minutes to take them all apart. It took him another twenty minutes to reshape them into what he needed, and even then, he knew it was fast, sloppy work. But it would do.

He intended to just grab the first medical officer he spotted as soon as he left the office, but as that person so happened to be Bones, he guessed it was fate. He almost got thrown off when he reached over and grabbed the distracted and frantically working CMO. "Goddammit, there's no time for – Jim?" he started, clearly shocked at seeing the captain.

"I know there's no time, Bones," Jim replied. "I need something. The Irri have broken loose from the cargo holds. They've gone crazy. I've got a plan, but I need something strong. Something that can spread through the air and knock them out." Ordinarily he'd try and use the ventilation systems for this, but obviously, that would be extremely touch-and-go.

Bones gave him a look, then shook his head. "I don't got anything like that, Jim," he was informed. "All my sedatives need to be injected."

"Then _think_," Jim prompted. "I just need something to take them down without killing them all!"

"Jesus, I don't know! I've barely had five minutes to get acquainted with their physiology. I could give you something that'd work on humans, but for all I know it could just make them vomit, or it could kill them!"

"_Bones,_" Jim said sharply. "I'm not asking for a miracle here. But you're a genius – so make your best fucking guess and I'll live with it! That's an order!"

That seemed to work. He couldn't tell if it was the actual words or his tone of voice, but the doctor's expression hardened even further, and he dragged Jim over to one of the ransacked medical equipment lockers. Muttering darkly under his breath he pushed past several containers until he'd retrieved a few vials of something bright and red and acidic-looking, despite its colour.

"Here," he said, shoving the vials at Jim. "Don't you breathe anything of it in. It's a paralyzing agent, it temporarily disables the brain's signals to your muscles. I just hope to hell it doesn't kill them all."

"Me too," Jim admitted, and then he turned to leave. But his crew came before the Irri.

"Jim," he heard Bones say, causing him to pause for a moment, wondering if there was more. "About Spock…"

"Tell me later," he said abruptly, earning himself a look of confusion.

"But…?"

"I can't, Bones," he admitted. "If I stop now, I might not start up again." It was a hard thing to own up to, but he knew it was true down to the very core of his being.

Fortunately, all his admission earned him was a brief, understanding nod, and then he was off again, pushing through the throngs of sickbay and racing, patchwork device in one hand and dangerous medical substance in another, for the turbolift. Running with scissors had nothing on Jim Kirk.

The lift wouldn't start.

Cursing darkly he tried the controls several times, and realized that either the system had failed or, more likely, engineering had redirected power for some reason. It had already been forty minutes – he couldn't afford to waste any more time. So he secured his device in the waistband of his pants – nothing else for it, really – and slipped the vials into his pocket before he opened the emergency hatch at the bottom of the lift, and worked his way onto the hard, round rungs of the shaft's ladder. He was a little more sharply aware of the pain in his limbs and hands as he climbed, his burns protesting their abuse against the cold metal.

After the vials clinked dangerously against one of the rungs the first time, Jim moved them from his pocket to his mouth. There'd definitely be no going back if they broke there, but it was less likely they would, so he just tried not to think about what would happen if he suddenly lost control of his muscles while he was hanging onto a ladder suspended over several decks' worth of a drop. That kind of thing was easy for him, though.

Now that he thought of it, he and potentially deadly falls had a fairly extensive relationship.

Still, it was a good thing when he came to the access hatch for the right deck, and he worked one arm under the ladder and reached over to press in the emergency override codes for the opening.

It was a little awkward when those didn't work.

A dark suspicion worked its way through him as he entered in his captain's override, instead, and got the door to slide apart at last. He pulled himself through the opening and onto the deck, and then halted, taking in the sight surrounding him.

After a quiet second, he closed the opening to the shaft and locked it again.

He had to move Ensign Mercado's body to get to the controls. She must have decided she was fit enough to go back and help the rest of the security team during his absence. There were several phaser burns along her chest, and more on her back. It looked like someone had managed to get the security systems to work again, because the locks were functioning now. Mercado – probably using Giotto's codes – had enabled the ship's quarantine system to shut down the turbolifts, if he was backtracking her actions at the controls accurately. No small feat, all things considered.

That probably meant the Irri had broken past the barricade, and security was trying to contain them to the deck, at least.

The ensign couldn't have been more than twenty. She was young, like most of his crew. He'd have to write to her family. Just like he'd have to write to everyone's family, those horrible condolences which no one wanted to get.

Forcibly, he put it from his mind. There wasn't anything for it now.

He turned, ready to start down the corridor, and hoping that the entirety of the rest of the security team was alive.

Roon was standing at the other end.

Jim started, and froze. He hadn't heard anything, hadn't seen any movement out of the corner of his eye or gotten that 'eyes on the back of your neck' feeling, and was utterly shocked, then, to see the Irri there. Just standing, still and quiet. He could have been doing it the entire time. For Jim, who was normally very aware of his surroundings, the thought was jarring.

There was a phaser rifle in one of the Irri's hands. Which didn't bode well, especially given that Jim was unarmed.

"You are not dead," Roon said at length.

At least he was speaking, much to Jim's surprise, given how unrepentantly aggressive the other Irri he'd seen had been behaving.

"No," he confirmed. "That was a trick."

Roon shifted, moving so that the phaser rifle was aimed at him. Jim got ready to dodge if he had to. "Why?"

He swallowed, and wondered if he should lie. But this was already enough of a mess as it was. "I told you before that my people are different," he said. "I had no intention of leading you when we fought. I only wanted to talk. So we needed a way to make you their leader again, in order to keep you from dying when we sent you back to your world."

There was a tense, silent moment as the two of them regarded one another.

"…I do not understand," Roon said at length. "But I think that is true for many things now. I am sorry for Mercado. She was good." After a long moment, then, he slowly moved the phaser rifle so it wasn't aimed directly at Jim anymore.

"Did you kill her?" he asked.

The tall Irri frowned, his gaze darting sideways. "I do not know," he admitted. "The shouting scrambles our minds, makes it so we are angry. It was meant to scramble the minds of our enemies, before we used it to shout vessels from the sky."

Giotto's theory held up, then.

"It did not help that we were angry already," Roon added, and his tone was accusatory and puzzled and, Jim thought, a little overwhelmed as well. "We would have followed you. Why did you not wish this?" the Irri asked with apparent anxiety.

Jim didn't really think he had time for a huge dissertation on ethics. It hadn't really gotten through the first time, anyway.

"I could try and explain, but I think we'd just end up going in circles," he reasoned. "Look, Roon, all I want to do is see you and your people safely back on your planet. Without getting anyone else killed." Was it possible the other Irri had calmed down enough to stop shooting and attacking as well? He didn't hear any phaser fire, but that could mean any number of things.

Roon frowned, and his eyes did his aggressive, horizontal blink, but he made no other move. "You would trap us there again," he said. "Where we wait death anyway."

True. But he was pretty sure, now, that between ship-crashing weapons and dilitium deposits, the Federation was going to take more than a little interest in Pyrius IV. "It's your homeworld," he pointed out.

"It is dying."

"…I know."

The phaser rifle was raised again. "I could kill you," Roon said. "Master this ship, and go very far away."

Jim let out a heavy breath. "It wouldn't work," he assured the Irri leader. "The rest of the Federation would come after you. Besides, I don't know if you've noticed, but the ship is fucking _busted_ now. As clever as your people are, I doubt you'd be able to repair it." He shifted the hand holding the medical vials, ready to fling one across the corridor if need be.

Roon swallowed, still blinking horizontally. But then, to Jim's surprise, he shifted his grip and dropped his weapon. It landed on the hull with a clatter. "I am tired of killing anyway," he professed.

After a moment's consideration, Jim took a step forward, moving across so that he stood a little closer. He could see that the Irri was, indeed, quite tired – physically and emotionally. It was quite a change from the cheerful figure of sickbay, or the aggressive one he'd met on the Klingon cruiser.

"That's lucky," Jim said. "I didn't exactly want to die, either."

He asked, then, about the other Irri and the rest of the security team. Apparently Roon was the first one to come back to his senses. He'd been 'shouted' at before, and so had something of a resistance to it, but most of the rest of his people didn't. They were still wildly unstable. The security team had barracked themselves into a storage room after they'd managed to shut down the turbolifts. Irri had been taking weapons off of the fallen officers left and right, and when the security team became too difficult of a target, they started firing on each other. Roon suspected there were less than a dozen of them left.

After all of the effort they'd put in to avoid getting people killed…

He pushed that thought aside, because there was nothing he could do with it. Instead he loosely explained to Roon about his plan to incapacitate his people with the device he'd rigged together, and the nerve toxin helpfully provided by Bones.

The Irri agreed to lead him to where they were, reasoning that it would probably be better for Jim to knock them out than to let them tear each other apart. The guns had let them do a lot of killing without expending a lot of energy, so they still had steam to burn, and right now, apparently, they were burning it on each other.

He knew they were getting close when he heard the pounding.

---

**Author's Note:** Of course, all you lovely people know Spock's going to survive, especially if you've read 'Good Times'. Unless that was Ghost Pon Farr…

And wow! More than 3000 reviews! Also, more than 3000 reviews before I got my first strictly negative one, so that's pretty damn sweet. We've got a bit more Captain! action to go, but the sheer K/S-ness coming up afterwards should make up for it.


	27. Chapter 27

The plan was simple – find the Irri, put the vials into the device, then throw the device at the Irri and book it as fast as he could in the opposite direction.

The execution proved to be a little more complicated than that. It did end up involving a lot of running, though.

Jim swore as a container full of something definitely _not_ _good _blew itself sky high when one of the Irri shot at it. The guy had been aiming for Jim's head, but seemed to be massively uncoordinated about it. Heat scorched through the air behind him as he ducked and covered, and a cry of pain ricocheted through the corridor – the Irri had been standing closer to the blast.

The problem was that they'd all scattered around, and he didn't know what kind of range he could expect from Bones' chemical.

"We need to get them all in one place," he told Roon, backing them both into the nearest alcove. "Any ideas?"

After thinking, Roon replied.

"No," he simply said.

For one brief, sinking and painful moment, Jim wished very much that he had Spock with him. It caught him off guard, sneaking up on him and then blindsiding him, and forced him to take a minute before he could formulate a coherent plan of action and start thinking right again.

"They're aggressive, right?" he said thoughtfully. "Think they'd chase me?" There was a good chance he'd just get shot, but he was fairly talented at dodging when he needed to be, and the Irri didn't look coordinated enough to run and shoot at the same time.

"Yes," Roon answered, seeming to stick to the single-word technique fairly handily. His eyes were flitting about, alert for the signs of others, even though his posture didn't change much.

Jim swallowed. He needed to get them all together – he remembered running away from a group of girls when he was seven, just collecting more and more of them as he ran and others decided to join in on a friendly game of 'torment the hell out of the little boy'.

"Alright," he said, and then he placed his patchwork device in front of himself, and inserted the vials which Bones had given him inside of it. "I'll round them up. When you see us coming, throw this into the middle…" he reconsidered. Irri did not have the best aim. "You know what? I'll do that. Why don't you go and find the security team. Keep your hands up like this," he advised, demonstrating the 'unarmed' gesture, "and talk to them straight off. Tell them you're not crazy anymore, and what's going on. Got it?"

Roon considered him for a moment. "You do not wish to master me, yet you command me?" he asked.

Jim let out a frustrated groan. "Look, it's not fucking complicated, alright? You don't _have_ to do anything I tell you. But if you think it's a good idea, then do it," he advised, before slinging the device back into the waistband of his pants. He was starting to feel it, now, starting to feel agitated and shaky, and he knew his crisis-induced numbness was well and truly wearing off, even if the crisis wasn't.

_Keep it together,_ he advised himself, and channeled some of the sheer bullheaded tenacity which had kept him going throughout the _Narada_ incident.

It was almost easy to launch himself down the corridor. Moving, at this point, was going to be far preferable to sitting around and thinking. The potential for getting shot added a certain edge to the whole affair, but this was familiar territory – running away from people who wished him bodily harm. With a little bit of running _towards_ them thrown in for good measure. His feet pounded atop the deck as he raced, heading for sounds of commotion or signs of activity, and soon enough he was ducking phaser fire, and there were heavy footsteps thundering behind him.

He considered just trying to run the Irri into exhaustion and not resorting to the use of chemicals at all. A good plan, if he could keep it up. But even Jim's stamina had its limits, and he'd been pelting through corridors and climbing down turbolift shafts and burning himself on broken bridge systems for a while now, and if he slipped up he was pretty sure he'd get shot at best and torn apart at worst.

He hadn't planned it at all to go the way it ended up going. But, then, in situations like that, planning anything at all could be a tricky affair, because the circumstances were always changing. Some of his fatigue finally caught up with him after several minutes of out-running a group of roughly a dozen murderous aliens, and as he rounded one of the corridors his burnt arm smacked against the wall. A surge of pain shot up at him. His balance was promptly shot to hell. He didn't fall, but he stumbled – and he knew that would be enough of an opening. So, whipping around, careening sideways, he withdrew the device and flung at the nearest Irri.

There was a 'smack', and a look of kind of stunned surprise on the guy's face before a cloud of pink gas erupted around him. Under any other circumstances, it would have been hilarious. As it was, Jim only had time to think 'I should move further away' before his entire left side went numb and he hit the deck. The right side followed its counterpart shortly thereafter, rendering him essentially motionless.

Fortunately, all of the Irri went down fast and hard as well.

That was how the remains of the security team found them fifteen minutes later. The Irri were secured with Roon, and Jim got himself hauled up to the medical bay, along with several injured security officers who were recovered wounded but alive from the deck.

Ironically, his only means of communicating was through blinks.

When he was brought in, Bones looked at him, called him an idiot four different ways, and then injected his neck full of something. Which then made Jim promptly feel incredibly nauseated, but a little bit less like he was floating in some sort of bubble within his own body.

He knew something was up when, as he tried to get his arms to move, Chekov came and found him. Because the last time he checked, the genius ensign was supposed to be modulating their shields to keep them from being blown up. But he was here, and they hadn't blown up – ergo, it stood to reason that there had been Developments.

"Keptan," he said upon spotting him. He looked exhausted, but also relieved. "We made contact with the _Nelson_. She has captured one of the Klingon ships and destroyed one, and it is seeming we helped destroy the other when Mr. Scott wented the warp nacelles to help jam their weapon. It owerloaded somehow. Keptan Malhotra is sending help – they were hit by phasers, but not the Irri dewice, so their systems are operating at normal capacity."

At that point, Jim would have been grateful for help from _Nero_, for fuck's sake, so he was able to give Chekov an approving flail.

"Good work. Tell Sulu," he instructed, choosing his words carefully as he worked the muscles of his jaw. Now that he knew that letting their guard down for five seconds wouldn't result in immediate destruction, it seemed they could breathe a little. "Reboot computer system."

"Aye, Keptan," Chekov said, and then he fired off a _salute_ of all things before he turned and made his way back out of sickbay at a light jog. As more feeling came back into his limbs, Jim figured he should go back up to the bridge to deal with everything – Malhotra's assistance and repairs and figuring out how many crewman he'd lost, and what the Klingons thought they were pulling, all of which seemed like necessary evils at this point.

"You're not leaving," Bones promptly informed him. "You're burned to hell, Jim, and you just poisoned yourself. Again, for christsakes. I'll tell the _Nelson_ – they've been talking to Sulu or Uhura or whoever the hell's got the conn for this long, and I'm not letting you kill yourself over your damn fool tiff with Starfleet." Then he shifted, reaching around Jim and producing a burn treatment kit from apparently _nowhere_. Sometimes he thought Bones was a kind of genie.

All things considered, though, he found himself grateful that his friend was being a hardass about this. He made the cursory objections of course – he really _should_ be up there, he'd look like one shitty captain if he was missing during a crisis – but all of them got shut down. Scotty could handle this, or Giotto could handle that, or Bones would bolt him to a medical bed if he didn't shut the hell up, goddammit. To be honest, he wasn't even putting much effort into it. When the fiery throb of his burns had been dulled down, and he could feel extensive pins and needles in the rest of his body – and therefore _use_ the rest of his body – he finally asked.

"…Spock?"

It was like opening a floodgate. Bones paused and looked at him, and then wordlessly grabbed his arm to help him stand, and brought him across to the other side of the bay. A few medical aids asked him questions along the way, slowing them slightly as he took a moment to bark out instructions, and then he found himself standing in front of one of the back alcoves.

Spock was spread out on the narrow medical bed. His left hand and the left side of his head and neck were both covered in bandages and some kind of thick, purple-coloured salve that Jim recognized as being a really potent burn treatment.

"He's gone into a Vulcan healing trance," Bones informed him. "I wouldn't know what it was, except it's in his medical file. Took me half of a damn eternity to realize that's what he'd done. I can't say how long he'll sleep it off for, but he'll be fine…"

The way he trailed off made Jim think there was something more.

"What is it?" he asked, his voice quiet as he stared at Spock. The gentle rise and fall of his first officer's chest was very subtle. But it was there.

"The burns on his left ear and down the side of his neck were pretty severe, Jim. I'm almost certain he'll have scars," the CMO admitted.

Scars?

Jim didn't take his eyes off of Spock.

It wouldn't be ethical to fire on a surrendered enemy vessel. Besides, scars were nothing. Jim had scars – albeit none on anything as aesthetically pleasing as Spock's neck and ear, but frankly, he didn't give a damn about scars. Coming down off of the possibility that Spock might _die_, a few scars didn't matter.

Nevertheless, he knew he was crashing. He could feel it rise up in his chest, the urge to go over, to somehow make contact with Spock and reaffirm that he was _alive_. His heart was hammering and his skin felt like it was going to run away from him, his mind running in a constant litany of garbled relief and fear and the unsettling sensation of seeing his first officer laid out in sickbay.

"…Bones…" he managed to say, his voice dry and strained.

"You aren't leaving 'till I say," the doctor informed him. "But as long as you don't go poking his bandages, I'll let you two alone."

Jim barely even acknowledged it as he walked away, although on some level, he was grateful. For a quiet moment he stayed where he was, as if frozen.

Then he took several steps forward, pausing once he was alongside the pallet and his half-Vulcan. He looked wrong, covered in bandages, pale and worn and very, very still. To see him like that you'd never know how strong he was. The salve smelled unpleasantly, and he thought that there was a chance he'd always remember that smell, and associate it with terrible things forever more.

After a time, Jim gave in to his need for contact and leaned over, pressing his forehead against Spock's – well above the bandages. His skin was still warm, but it was _quiet_, almost, in the way that he didn't feel _Spock_ as he had become accustomed to. He was in a healing trance. His mind was elsewhere, not focused on the surface of his consciousness, where Jim was.

Still, even if it was disconcerting to realize there was an absence there, Spock was alive and whole and he'd get better. It was still the same forehead pressed against Jim's own, and after a moment he leaned back a little and then pressed his lips against it. He couldn't even find the energy to care if he was being remarkably tender and soft and squishy in front of any passing medical staff. There were four-year-old girls with more masculine pride than Jim at that moment, and if it weren't for his injuries, he might well have just curled himself around Spock like a blanket and unabashedly _clung_ to him for as long as he physically could.

Instead he settled for another kiss, laying this one against Spock's uninjured temple instead.

And then he felt it.

Surprised, he pulled back, looking at Spock's face. But he was still unconscious – eyes closed and breathing even.

"Spock?" he asked tentatively, just to be sure.

There was no response, just the quiet, soft inhale and exhale of his lungs. Swallowing hard, Jim wondered if he'd imagined it. He pressed his lips to Spock's temple once more, and held them there against his warm skin for another moment.

After a second, he felt it again. That familiar current of contact and of presence. Like having eyes on the back of his neck, only under his skin instead. It was very shaky and indistinct, but he could feel it, and the sheer _relief_ of that made his throat harden and close. He didn't even know how it was possible. He shouldn't have been able to feel Spock at all while he was unconscious, everything he knew from the other Spock told him that. When he wasn't awake his mind didn't seek psychic contact, so unless Jim had latent telepathic abilities (and he was pretty sure he would have noticed by now, thanks) then there ought not to have been anything.

But there was.

Then again, he supposed he should know better than to underestimate his first officer by now. Just because no one _else_ had done it didn't mean that Spock couldn't. Although, as comforting as it was, it probably wasn't helping him any with his whole 'healing thing' – like distracting him during meditation. So Jim backed up. But he didn't go far. Instead he slid down onto the floor next to the medical bed. There _was _a chair. He just didn't feel like using it, and besides, there was a certain comfort to the cool of the deck, and to having Spock's hand resting not far from his head.

Now that he could, he'd just shut down for a while, and allow himself to be needy and attached and an utter mess of a man. He'd go back to being Captain Kirk in a while. Just then, he was Jim, and Jim was coming down off of being exceptionally terrified that he had lost Spock. It took a while to weld the pieces of himself back together when it felt like they'd been ripped out.

He propped up his knees and rested his arms atop them, running a hand absently over his burn bandages and trying to think what Spock would look like with a scar. Probably sexy, he had a way of pulling stuff off. Jim didn't know how Vulcans took to disfigurement on a philosophical level. If he had to guess he'd say they'd go with 'it's illogical to care about that shit', with slightly different phrasing, but that would be the _cursory_ answer.

His mind couldn't really follow with this train of thought for long, though. Instead it kept drifting back to…

Well, to himself. And Spock. More specifically, to himself as he was now with Spock. Or without him.

With a kind of surreal solemnity, Jim considered what it might be like if, in fact, this whole relationship between them didn't come to an end. Maybe it was strange, considering that it almost _had_ ended in the worst way. Then again, he guessed it made sense, since he was really disinclined to ever suffer that feeling for a second time. All things considered he probably _would_ – they had dangerous jobs – but if Spock were to suddenly die then it would be because the matter was completely out of Jim's hands. Otherwise, of course, he wouldn't die. So there was nothing he could do if an unforeseen electrical surge shorted out his station and killed him.

The helplessness was an unwelcome feeling. He shoved it aside.

But there _were_ things he could control. Hell, he was pretty good at finding ways to control things he _shouldn't_ be able to, so power surges had better watch their asses. The problem was… he couldn't control Spock, either. Only in a command capacity, really, and that wasn't what he was thinking about by a long shot. So if he actually did – if he really wanted to seriously think about having Spock with him until one of them died, that whole 'until we're old grey men' thing, he knew what he was putting himself up for. Even if Jim never changed his mind, Spock might.

_That_, however, that was something Jim could have at least some effect on, despite it being _ultimately_ out of his hands. Letting the potential for failure get in his way when he decided he wanted something wasn't like him, and he was starting to think that he wasn't ever going to get tired of Spock. He wasn't ever going to not want him around.

He leaned his head so that it was resting against the side of Spock's pallet. It probably wasn't smart to make a decision right then. They'd warned everyone about this at the academy, how after life-threatening or emotionally traumatic incidents, people could rush into things to compensate for them. The smart thing to do would probably be to wait and just go on as he had for a while, and then revisit the whole idea later.

Tilting his head, he glanced over at Spock's pale, long-fingered hand, resting still and quiet right there.

Fuck it.

Shifting his position, he moved, reached up, and laid his own on top of it, as Spock had done for him a few days ago. He'd be an idealistic idiot. He'd do this whole courting thing seriously – _really_ seriously, not just indulgently – and he'd make a goddamn long-term plan, like Uhura had asked him. He was going to utterly convince Spock that Jim was the best person for him, he'd do what it took to make this whole 'courtship' work out, and he'd seduce him, and then they'd have such mind-blowing sex that nothing would ever top it (this was the part he was most certain his current skill set could pull off) and then he'd do whatever the hell it was that Vulcans did when they got married, and hell, he'd _get married._ And then he'd seduce him some more, because he liked that.

It was a terrifying resolution. But he made it anyway, because, he realized, it was less terrifying than the alternative.

Four little letters bounced around in his skull. Tentatively, very, very tentatively, Jim began to consider that they might fit. It was sort of like thinking about the possibility of unicorns being real.

Then again, he was sure there were horned horse-type-animals on _some_ planet out there.

He let himself drift there for a while, deciding that ultimately it didn't particularly matter, because labeling things wouldn't change them one way or another. It seemed like he'd been holding on tightly to this for a while now, and finally something had really come along and tried to rip it out of his arms, when all this time he'd been more afraid of dropping it on his own. So he just redoubled his grip and settled down beside Spock and his horrible-smelling burn treatment, and rested.

The bustle of sickbay was relevant only on the fringes of his perception, but after quite some time had passed he became aware of a shift in it. He looked up, hearing a voice that was decidedly out of place for this setting.

"I just need to talk to the captain about what's happened, I won't keep him long," he heard Captain Malhotra say. Then there were the sounds of footsteps and motion, and Jim had barely straightened himself and let go of Spock's hand when the other captain came into view, as he was still resting on the floor. She paused, and her eyes widened marginally, and then he lost sight of her when Bones skidded to a stop between them.

"This is a sickbay, Captain," he said, sounding as pissed off as Jim had ever heard him. "I'm the chief medical officer here, and it's _my_ jurisdiction, so you can talk to Captain Kirk when I've damn well cleared him for duty." As he was speaking a very harried-looking Sulu also came into view. It seemed like he'd been chasing after Malhotra.

So, he probably looked like a wreck, and another Starfleet captain had just walked in on him being all emotionally attached to his first officer. His ship was a mess and his security team had suffered casualties, as had the Irri they were transporting. All in all, he probably painted the very picture of incompetence. But even though he was intellectually aware that this was a bad thing, he found he couldn't quite muster up the energy to care what Malhotra thought of him.

He didn't want to get his crew into shit, though. Standing up, he moved over to Bones, and lowered a hand on his shoulder. "It's alright, Bones, I'm feeling a lot better," he said, and it seemed like the entire medical bay had gone silent as he turned an expectant, tired gaze towards the other captain. "Something you need?" he asked.

Malhotra looked a little unsettled, her gaze moving between Spock's prone form, the silent watch of his crew, and himself. "…I apologize for the intrusion, Captain Kirk," she said after a moment. "I wanted to ascertain what exactly happened onboard you ship after the Klingons attacked."

"Yeah, fair enough," he replied, wondering why everyone in sickbay looked like they wanted to behead the woman. He supposed not even being in critical condition had necessarily killed the lingering dislike between their two ships. "I want to know what happened out there from your perspective, too," he admitted. Then he turned to Bones, whose shoulder was pretty tense underneath his hand. "Mind if we use your office, Dr. McCoy?" he asked.

"Hell yes I do," Bones replied, and he blinked. "I don't see why you can't do this over a goddamn transmission after everyone's had a damn day to catch their goddamn breaths…" he trailed off, muttering, but eventually Jim managed to ascertain that he _could_ use the office, he just shouldn't expect anyone to be happy about it.

As he led Malhotra to it, he tried to slip back into his captain's demeanor, and found he could manage it – albeit a little more shakily than usual.

"First off, Captain," he said. "I'd like to thank you for your assistance." That was probably one of the stiffer thank-you's of his life, but he knew it was also what he was expected to say. Besides which, if they'd been alone they probably _would_ all be dead, so he supposed he meant it, too.

Malhotra waved a hand dismissively. "We're all Starfleet here, there's no need for that," she assured him. Then she lowered herself into the chair across from Bones' desk, and Jim took the one behind it, albeit with a little less grace. "I wish it were under better circumstances, but it's good to finally speak to you in person. I feel there's something to be said for interacting face to face, although I'm sorry to have hounded you down in the medical bay. I wasn't aware of your condition until I'd already beamed aboard. Your communications system is still quite damaged."

Jim shrugged, even though he would have preferred not to have been caught in the decidedly compromised state he had been. Now he was _glad_ he hadn't been able to act on the impulse of just clinging to Spock for a while – although the look on the other captain's face probably would have been very interesting. She was still using that _tone_, though. "Captain," he said finally, sighing a little bit. "Would you quit talking to me like I'm a particularly prodigious seventeen-year-old? We actually_ have _one of those, you know, and I've found that he's a lot friendlier if you just address him as a normal human being."

He probably wouldn't have said that if he was operating at one-hundred percent, but once he had he found there was a kind of cathartic release in just dragging it out to the open. Malhotra looked surprised, and then a little indignant and a little embarrassed, folding her hands and actually – miracle of miracles – finding a clear space on Bones' desk to rest them. Jim had kind of made a mess of it the last time he'd been there.

"You'll have to forgive me," she said. "It's just that you're _younger_ than my own son, and as talented as he is, I can't imagine him ever running a starship. I suppose it's habit, although it's not my intention to belittle you."

Unfortunately, he still got the impression she was talking down to him, even given her explanation. He sighed and decided to let it go.

"Fine," he agreed, and then found himself giving the woman a complete run-down of what had happened to his ship after the Klingon vessels had made their presence known. He decided to gloss over a few details, such as his soul-rending terror at the idea of his first officer's death, but unfortunately had to include others, like his whacking an Irri with a rigged device full of a paralyzing agent and knocking himself out of commission in the process.

When he was through, he got the distinct impression that she thought he was bullshitting her.

"Let me make sure I understand you, Captain," she said. "Your first officer was rendered unconscious during the initial assault. Mr. Spock has been completely out of commission for this entire ordeal?"

Feeling a little confused, Jim nodded. "Uh, yeah," he said, some of his captainly demeanor slipping. But he was pretty damn certain that he remembered that part right. It was probably burned into his brain now, seeing the console explode and watching Spock fall to the deck.

"He gave you no instructions prior to his collapse on how to handle things?"

Jim was sure he liked her tone even less now, as well as her choice of words. Spock didn't give him 'instructions'. Sometimes he pointed things out, and nearly all the time he offered an opinion, but _he_ was the captain. "Oh, _now_ I remember!" he exclaimed, unable to help himself as the stress of the day seemed to culminate and force out his less professional side. Raising a hand, he smacked himself on the forehead. "That's right, he wrote out a list of instructions for just what exactly we should do in the event of this _completely predictable _set of circumstances. It had little charts on it and everything! And it offered such _helpful_ advice, like 'if you see a sparking ball of wires, don't stick your head in it', and 'make sure you keep the shields up when the sensors are down and enemy ships are around'. Gee, I don't know if I'd have been able to find my own _ass_ without it. You know, just between us. Captain to captain."

He was probably going to get a complaint lodged against him now.

Malhotra gave him a bland look. "Your professionalism about this is inspiring, Kirk," she informed him.

Moving, he smacked a hand down against the desk. Then he regretted it, because _fuck_ that hurt, but it still seemed to make a dramatic point. "I'm sorry, Malhotra," he said. "You'll have to forgive me. Having my ship torn to shreds, dealing with the deaths of a large portion of my security team _and_ our passengers, and watching my first officer nearly get barbequed hasn't put me in much of a mood to dick around. Next time we'll let them shoot _your_ ship first, and then I can imply that it's shocking you were able to keep it together without Commander Thorne holding your hand through the experience, _Ma'am_, so you can demonstrate the most appropriate way for a captain to react."

He was pretty sure the entire medical bay had heard that.

Whoops. What a time to actually have his freak-out.

Malhotra regarded him silently for a moment. Then she sighed, raised her hand, and rubbed her forehead in that universal signal for 'you're giving me a headache'. "It seems I can't help but offend you, doesn't it?" she noted. "Again, I meant no slight to you. It's only that I'm aware that Commander Spock has had more experience-"

"Commander Spock has _two years_ more experience, and most of that involved the academy," Jim countered. "He's a genius, he's the best first officer I could ask for, and I don't doubt he could handle any crisis situation you threw at him, but if we were suddenly incapable of functioning without him, I'd count us all a pretty shitty crew."

"Indeed."

His gaze snapped up, something inside of him flaring into warmth and shock at the sound of the familiar voice. Malhotra turned in her seat as well. Spock was standing by the office doorway. He was still bandaged and pale and drawn, and one of the nurses – Chapel, actually – was hovering behind him in obvious agitation at his moving around. But he was awake, and holding himself in as much of his usual, calm manner as he could.

"I would endeavor to say, Captain, that your conduct during crisis situations has proven to be superior to my own on several occasions now. I believe that is why Starfleet accorded you your rank," Spock said evenly, and a moment later Jim was out of his chair, moving towards his first officer.

He drew a heavy breath. "Spock," he said, feeling something unknot a little simply by virtue of having him conscious again. "Get your ass back in bed!"

Well. He shouldn't be walking around, he looked like he was going to fall over. To Jim's eye, anyway.

Oh crap, he sounded like Bones, didn't he?

Spock raised an eyebrow at him. "If you insist," he replied. "I merely wished to assure Captain Malhotra that I have been completely unconscious between the time of the first attack and the point when her professionalism prompted her to antagonize an injured man confined to medical treatment." At this, he turned to the _Nelson's_ captain, gave her an acknowledging nod, and then allowed Nurse Chapel to ferry him away.

A lot of Jim's bad mood left, too. Although not all of it. He was still stressed beyond belief, because his ship was still a mess, and people were still dead, and he hadn't been told what had happened from the _Nelson's _end, either.

After a moment, Malhotra cleared her throat. "It would seem that I have misperceived certain elements of your crew dynamic, Captain," she said at length. Jim turned from where he'd watched Spock walk away, and gave her his attention again.

"Yeah, well. Maybe we should just try and stop arguing about it and get back to business," he suggested. The sooner this was over, the sooner they could start dealing with things and get it all back to normal again. He retook his seat, and drew a breath.

"So. I've told you what I know. Now _I'd_ like to hear about what your crew's been up to, and if you've found anything out about the Klingons."

---

**Author's Note:** Since somebody asked, the title of the story _does_ have an intended meaning beyond referring to the fact that we started out with Jim going home for a visit. Even though this is Kirk-centric, the title, in fact, relates to Spock's situation. Also, I'm not currently archiving any of my stories on any other sites – this is mostly because I don't want the hassle of uploading to multiple sites almost every day. There's a chance that once the story's done I'll go through, pick out the mistakes I missed the first time around, and then post it in different places – but then again, I might be just as busy writing other stuff, too.

Thanks for all the reviews you guys! I really do read and appreciate them all. Who wouldn't? We're coming up towards the last arc of this story (not counting the epilogue) now, although how long it will be I can't say.


	28. Chapter 28

Captain Malhotra was fairly certain that events had transpired thusly:

The Klingons had somehow discovered that Pyrius IV contained heavy deposits of dilithium. These dilithium deposits had likely been located too far underground for any cursory scans of the planet to detect, particularly since it had been several decades since anyone had really bothered to look. At this discovery, they had begun illegal trade with the Irri in order to obtain the dilithium. The Irri, clever as they were, eventually devised a weapon to bring down several Klingon ships. At some point after this, however, the Klingons offered them further trade enticements in order to obtain the weapon. The _Enterprise_ and the _Nelson_ had then offered convenient targets for them to test this new technology on.

Captain Kirk was pretty sure shit had gone down more like this:

The Klingons had been planning a strategic strike against the Federation by targeting the new Vulcan colony. However, while they were doing reconnaissance for that strike, they'd needed to set themselves up in temporary orbit around another planet. In the process of finding a suitable one, they stumbled on Pyrius IV, and its dilithium deposits. He was running on his own theory that nuclear radiation reacted differently with the Irri's terrain and either created a substance which sensors _misread_ as dilithium, or else actually made dilithium. Mostly that was just to be contrary, though. He figured the Klingons had started sending away teams down to the planet to steal the dilithium – because if they were going to do something illegal, they probably wouldn't both to do it by halves. When the Irri started noticing the ships in orbit they took their experimental weapon, rigged it up, and brought them down. So, naturally, another group of Klingons had come to investigate, figured out what had happened, and sent another away team down via shuttle this time to steal the _weapon_ instead of the _dilithium_ for a change of pace.

Either way, once the Klingon ships met the Federation ones, the vessel with the Irri weapon onboard had opened fire on the _Enterprise_. The crew of the _Nelson_ had been pretty sure they were going to be a very dead flagship in a matter of minutes, and had opened retaliatory fire, engaging the Klingon vessels. But the _Enterprise_ had held itself together – to everyone's shock – modulating her shields, sending out a jamming signal on every available frequency, and venting their warp nacelles (thank you, Scotty, who'd thought of that before Jim had). Apparently the barely-visible energy beam created by the Irri weapon didn't react well to having warp plasma shoved in it. The weapon had overloaded, as far as anyone could tell, and blew off half the Klingon vessel's bridge.

It was probably inappropriate to derive as much satisfaction from that as he did. Fortunately, Jim had never been too concerned with what was appropriate, particularly within the privacy of his own mind.

The _Nelson_ had then easily destroyed the crippled Klingon cruiser, as well as another of the vessels, and had managed to damage the third to the point of actually _capturing _it. Which either meant the Klingons onboard were feeling particularly not-Klingon, or that their self-destruct mechanism had failed. Jim was banking on the latter.

All of this was well and good and enlightening, although whether they'd be able to get anything out of the captured Klingons was questionable. The problem really came in as they were discussing where to go from there.

"Your ship's damaged, Captain," Malhotra said in her same patient – and now somewhat exasperated – tones. "You're in no fit state to proceed in any investigation."

Jim was frowning, leaning against Bones' desk and trying to look less tired than he was. "I'm aware of that, thanks," he replied. "But my crew's invested in this mission. We can't back out now." Malhotra was of the opinion that the _Enterprise_ should return to Vulcan II – they wouldn't be able to get much further with the state of their engines – and begin repairs on their ship. Which was fine with Jim, except he wanted to do a patch-up job to see them through for now, carry on with the investigation into the Irri situation, and _then_ head for Vulcan II.

Both of them were running out of their already fragile patience with each other. "Alright," Malhotra said at length. "We'll compromise – the _Nelson_ will proceed with the mission, and the _Enterprise_ will return to Vulcan II. But. We'll trade several crewmembers in order to keep a presence from your ship established in the process," she offered, spreading her hands diplomatically. "We're within communications range, so I'll keep you well appraised of our findings. Will that satisfy you, Captain?" she asked.

_No,_ Jim thought. He knew, however, that it was the best he was going to get – and to be honest, he wanted to see to his ship's status pretty urgently as well. Still, it was a bitch to lose a mission.

"…Alright," he conceded, wondering who he should send over. "Select some possible candidates from your crew compliment, and I'll do the same."

Malhotra relaxed a little, as if she'd expected him to continue being belligerent about it, and offered him a pleased smile. "I'm glad we're agreed," she said. "Now – I'm sure both of us have more on our plates than we'd care for. I'll let you rest and see to your ship, and I'll send my list as soon as I may." She rose from her seat, then, and even though it would have been polite, Jim didn't quite have the energy to stand with her.

"Captain?" he did ask as she was leaving, however. With a pause Malhotra turned back to him, her expression inquiring. Jim gave her a slightly bitter smile. "I'll hold you to your promise to keep me appraised."

After a moment, the other captain nodded. "I'm sure you will, Kirk," she replied, and Jim couldn't tell if she was amused by him, antagonized by him, or impressed by him. Maybe all three.

He kind of did that to people.

With another nod, Malhotra left, and Jim finally slumped over his CMO's desk and clenched his eyes shut. Not five seconds later Bones was there, muttering darkly under his breath about how being a captain must transmit a contagious form of idiocy, because every damn captain he'd met was clearly deficient in common sense, and injecting him with something else despite his protests against it.

"I was like this _before_ I was a captain," Jim pointed out.

"You've always been a damn captain," Bones muttered. "You just didn't have a ship before." Then he checked his bandages, and with an approving nod, moved off to other patients. Jim took a moment to appreciate the fact that the man was probably dead on his feet by now. The _Nelson_ would be sending over some of their medical personnel temporarily, until Scotty could confidently get them Warp One and let them head for Vulcan II.

Damn. It felt retreating. And he'd have to get the remaining Irri back to their world, which would be simultaneously a relief and a tragedy.

Standing, he decided to go check on Spock. Then he'd get back to business.

When he got to the alcove, however, he found that he wasn't the only one who'd had that idea. Spock looked to be sleeping again, but Uhura was there. She had one eye on him, and a relieved look to her face. But then she saw Jim, and it closed off a little.

"Captain," she said formally.

"Lieutenant," he replied, wondering why he was getting the cold treatment. He'd thought she was starting to – well, warm up to him, more or less. At least ceasing the subversive (and not-so-subversive) hostility.

She frowned a little bit at him.

Jim decided he wasn't up to playing detective. He had to use code to decipher enough of Spock's actions and motivations, he wasn't about to extend that effort for every person he knew. "Why are you all pissy again?" he asked.

Her eyes narrowed at him a little bit. "Why didn't you say anything on the bridge?" she asked back.

…Huh?

"You're going to have to be a little more specific," he informed her. "Because I remember saying a lot of things on the bridge, so I sure as hell can't remember what it is I _didn't_ say."

She folded her arms. He was starting to notice she did that when she was about to verbally give him the business. "When I told you his condition was stable. You didn't even bat an eyelash!"

Jim looked at her for a long minute. He was debating on what to say to that. On the one hand, that whole period of time was starting to become something of a disjointed blur in his memory now, because he'd been in such a weird state of mind for it. But he guessed, looking back, it _could_ seem that he was just being an uncaring asshole. On the other hand – _fuck_ this shit. He took a breath.

"What was I supposed to do?" he asked. "Cry? Fall to my knees and start thanking every deity I knew? Smile? We were in the middle of a crisis, Lieutenant."

"But you didn't even-"

"I _couldn't_," he insisted. "It's like you said when I was all geared up to carry him to sickbay. I couldn't leave the bridge – that counts _mentally_, too, and if I'd done it for five seconds, I didn't know if I'd get it back. I…" at that he trailed off a little, losing some steam.

Uhura's frown eased up some. "Just to be clear – you _were_ worried about him?"

The response flew out almost defiantly. "I was fucking _petrified_ over him, alright?"

He was a little surprised at the shift in her demeanor when he said that, her pleased smile and the way her shoulders relaxed. After all, he'd just yelled at her. That wasn't the usual reaction, even if she approved of his answer.

"I know," she admitted. "It was easy to figure out."

…He didn't get it. Stumped, Jim just stood there as she walked over to him, and patted his arm. Then she turned back towards where Spock was lying.

"Are you sleeping yet, Spock?" she asked, and if Jim hadn't already frozen up, then he would have.

"I am not. It is a difficult state to achieve when people are antagonizing the captain into raising his voice – an occurrence which seems peculiarly common over the past hour," he noted, and Jim looked at him to see that he'd woken, and his eyes were regarding him carefully now.

Uhura gave Jim's arm a second pat. "Sorry, Captain. I just wanted to make sure he knew," she said, and before he could formulate a response, she'd already walked off on her way.

He was still having trouble figuring out what was going on when Spock addressed him, and his attention was immediately drawn back to his first officer. "I believe Nyota was attempting to manipulate you into admitting to your concern over me. It is likely she is of the opinion that you would not have done so of your own volition," he said. "If I had known that was her intention, I would have made her aware of her actions' lack of necessity."

Pausing, Jim swallowed, and then walked over so he was standing directly next to Spock, on his less damaged side. "I _was_ worried," he said. It wasn't like he'd have made a huge secret of it – at least not to Spock himself. Maybe he would have glossed it over a _little_, but he liked having some dignity, thanks. Well, most of the time anyway.

Spock looked at him. "I am aware of that fact," he said.

Given that Jim had just shouted about it, he was pretty sure half of the ship was aware of it now. That cat was entirely out of its bag. If it ever even had been in a bag to begin with – he was pretty sure they'd been 'discreet' more than necessarily secretive.

"How do you feel?" he asked, deciding to just change topics.

"My physical status is less than optimal," Spock replied. "It would be advisable for me to rest. However, if my presence is required, I believe I would be able to function."

"Rest," Jim said immediately. "If you don't, I'll sic Bones on you. You have no idea how terrifying that man is with a hypo."

"On the contrary," Spock replied. "I have witnessed his effects on the human 'flight' reflex several times." Then he reached up a little, and to Jim's brief surprise, took his hand. It wasn't the usual 'kiss' gesture. It was more like what a typical human would do, clasping them together at the palms, firm and warm. "Do not be concerned. Unlike yourself, I am reasonable in acknowledging my own limitations."

Jim snorted, and felt himself relax in a way that made him aware of just how wound up he'd been. "Yeah, right," he said, knowing full well that Spock could be as much of a stubborn idiot as he was when he'd been given the proper motivation. The hand within his own sent a pleasant current up his arm, wonderfully familiar now and very welcome. But after a moment, Spock released his grip, and Jim let him, leaving him to his rest.

The next order of business was to escape sickbay.

"Bye Bones!" he said cheerfully as he casually made his way towards the exit.

"Yeah, bye Ji – oh, _goddammit,_ get back here!"

Sometimes that actually worked.

He turned a bit towards the CMO, and shrugged, still walking backwards to the exit. "Sorry, but duty calls. I feel fine anyway." Now that he'd crashed and had a chance to recover a little, he was ready to get everything dealt with.

Bones knew it would be a losing battle at this point. So he grudgingly let him go – too busy to stop him, really – and Jim hoped that the relief from the _Nelson_ didn't annoy his CMO more than they helped him.

His steps slowed once he was clear of the medical bay, but not by much. He made his way up to the bridge, passing through the still too-dim corridors, and noting a few panels which members of his crew had cracked open in attempts at emergency repairs. Some were being closed off. Others were being left open, either for further work, or simply because they hadn't been seen to yet. To think they'd been in peak condition when they'd left spacedock, and now they were in a substantial mess.

Still, the computer repairs they'd needed done near Earth had been primarily because of the memory damage. There hadn't been any way to fix and replace the lost data without going in for it. But he was fairly certain his crew could handle _these_ issues, as extensive as they were, and he was inclined to do it that way. Especially given the 'additional upgrades' they'd gotten the last time they docked. He'd have to have a long conversation with Scotty about it to be sure, though. That could wait until they got to Vulcan II.

In the meanwhile, they needed to fix what they could, and he had to pick some crewmembers to stand in for the _Enterprise_ with the _Nelson_. He was a little uncertain of how to proceed with this. On the one hand, he wanted to send people he trusted, more or less, so he knew what was going on. Then again, he didn't want to break up his team when there was such extensive damage to deal with. He toyed with the idea of sending Giotto, but Security had a particular animosity towards the _Nelson_, and besides, he didn't feel like sending any of that team straight into another mission after what they'd just been through. There would be memorial services to be held, and if he could give them something of a break to recover, then he'd do that.

These thoughts preoccupied him as he came onto the bridge, and he paused for a moment.

He'd forgotten how much of it had been gutted in his impromptu attempt to repair the sensors. It looked like an elephant had torn through the stations, and everyone seemed tired and worn down and exhausted. He took a long look around.

"Anyone with a non-essential station, take a break," he instructed promptly. "We'll be drifting for a bit while the _Nelson_ sends people over to help. Of course, you probably already knew that. Get some sleep if you need it and go to sickbay if you're injured."

There was a grateful shuffle of movement as people complied with his order, but still too many tired faces hard at work afterwards. He had a feeling this was going to be one of those times everyone looked back on as a tiny slice of hell.

After a minute, Jim made his way over to the helm, where Sulu and Chekov were both still hard at work. "You too, guys," he said. "Go rest – we won't be flying anywhere or shooting at anything for a while."

"Aye, Captain," Sulu said gratefully. Chekov looked like he might have protested and kept going, but the helmsman closed a hand around his arm and all but dragged him from his station.

Jim watched them, considering. "When you've recuperated," he said as they were leaving. "Come find me, alright? I've got something I want to run past you two."

The pair shared a glance, but then promptly agreed, and the next thing Jim knew it was just himself, several people from Maintenance and Engineering, and his bridge. Which at least wasn't sparking and spitting like an angry cat anymore. He went to update himself on how rebooting the computer system had worked out for them, and assess his ship's status a little more thoroughly.

A few hours later found him overseeing the _Nelson's_ aid via the repaired internal communications system. Scotty had momentarily relocated from his beloved Engineering to do a few repairs which were better managed from the bridge, and his heavily accented mutterings could be heard drifting up from underneath a nearby console as he did something which Jim was pretty sure would be considered crazily brilliant by other engineers. They bonded a little over swearing about Klingons in between swearing at cables or the _Nelson's_ crew.

Scotty remained tactfully quiet about the green smears he had to clear off of several sections. After a while, though, he put down his hyperspanner, clapped his hands against the side of his uniform, and declared, "Worst of it's done, now. I'll have one of the lads come up for the rest." Jim nodded, and found that the vast majority of scrambling through the systems had been repaired, so they were at least capable of _reading_ the information they were getting now.

"Thanks, Scotty," he said absently.

A hand fell on his shoulder. "Come on, Captain," the chief engineer said. "Yeh know yeh've been at it far too long when _ah'm_ taking a break. Let's go get something to eat," he advised. "I'd hang a man fer a sandwich."

Jim paused, hesitant, but after a moment he relented and followed Scotty down to the mess hall.

"How's Mr. Spock?" the engineer asked, and it looked like someone from his department had recently repaired the replicators, going off of a couple of open panels. Scotty spotted them, swore, and pulling a tool from one of his pockets, promptly began closing them up. "Bloody lazy. Ah know it's a crisis, but ah'm always telling 'em – _close_ the damn panels, or else that job's not _done_…" he muttered, and Jim absently retrieved them both a few sandwiches from the system. The hall wasn't terribly full, but he supposed most people with a chance for a break would want to sleep. He certainly did.

"Spock'll be alright," Jim said, once Scotty'd finished grumbling and repairing and took a seat across from him.

"Glad to hear it."

That seemed to be that, then, as the two men ate in tired silence. Still, Jim appreciated the company. He was starting the think that his crew was making a combined effort to look out for him. It was… nice. It made him wish there was more he could do to look out for them, too. He supposed, in a way, that letting Malhotra take their mission from them counted for that a bit. Instead of pushing them, he'd give them a chance to catch their breaths.

Still, he was also certain that they could take any pushing he gave them. It was just hard to let go of a job, and a mystery. There were questions he wanted answered.

After a time, he found himself expressing his frustrations to Scotty, who was, surprisingly, as good a listener as he was a talker.

"Ah know what yeh mean, Captain," the Scotsman admitted at length, around several bites of chicken. "It happens to engineers all the time. Yeh get to workin' on something, an' yeh're really going somewhere with it, and then some stuffed-shirt from Resources comes an tells yeh, no, they're 're-allocating workforce ratios' or some other shite and yeh've got to up and switch projects mid bloody stream."

Jim gave him a considering look. "How do you deal with it?" he asked.

Scotty shrugged. "Well, ah've got this dartboard, see? And it's just the _perfect_ size to get a good picture on-"

He was cut off, however, as a tired-looking young man in an ops uniform that looked like it had been better days staggered over, and apologetically started asking about what they should do with a failed power coupling down in engineering. A few minutes later Scotty was off, and Jim wandered back up to the bridge to keep with repairs until he was essentially dead on his feet. At which point he gave in, assigned a more rested lieutenant whose name he honestly couldn't remember to oversee everything, and headed for his quarters.

It felt like he'd only blinked and rolled over when the alarm he'd set was going off.

With a tired groan he levered himself up, and got ready for another very long, very unpleasant day.

The first order of business was seeing the remaining Irri over to the _Nelson_, so they could then be sent home. Once he was certain of his coherency enough to, he made his way down to the cargo holds. The Irri there were solemn and quiet when he approached, all slumped against the walls of their room, with eyes downcast and movements listless. Only Roon looked over at his approach.

There was so _few_ of them now. It was kind of shocking to see.

"Captain Kirk," the Irri leader greeted him quietly, and though he didn't appear aggressive, gave him a horizontal blink.

Jim nodded. "Roon," he said. "We'll be sending you over to the _Nelson_ soon. They didn't get hit with the weapon, so your people there are fine. They'll see you home," he said.

If his words were in any way consoling, he couldn't tell.

"This thing may be wise," Roon said at length. "But it is not hopeful."

No. He didn't suppose it would seem that way, not from their perspective. Not from his, either, really, but he couldn't think of a better way to solve things without breaking at least a dozen laws. "It's possible," he eventually said at length. "If you're planet is rich in dilithium, then considering your circumstances, there's a chance the Federation might be willing to set your people up on a colony on a different world." That would give them leave to mine every last ounce of the resource from the planet without worrying about the native population. It might very well work out best for the Irri, as well, given the damaged state of their home.

Roon tilted his head. "Another world?" he asked.

Jim nodded. "Yeah. There are several, although finding a suitable one can be tricky. But if they were going to consider something like that, they'd need to be certain that you wouldn't keep using the weapons you have against one another. It wouldn't be easy, and I can't really speak for them – but maybe."

It seemed he'd given the Irri something to think about, as Roon's expression turned contemplative. He'd do what he could to make the suggestion to Starfleet. Who knew? Maybe he'd even talk to Malhotra about it, see if she agreed. It was the best he could think of. In the meanwhile, he helped escort them to the transporter room, and wished them well – all things considered – as they beamed away.

It still felt someone had taken a weight off of his chest when they were gone, despite his apprehensions.

The crew seemed more relaxed afterwards, too, although he suspected that had more to do with the brief rests they'd allowed themselves than anything else. There was also a cessation of subversive hostilities between his people and the _Nelson'_s, so far as he could tell. Apparently the _Nelson'_s crew found it distasteful to condescend to people who'd nearly got their asses ripped apart, and his own were just too grateful for the help to care anymore. There were still some grumblings, but not too many.

He found Sulu and Chekov on the bridge. The former was testing the engines with an open comlink to engineering, while Chekov seemed to be helping with several of their computer difficulties.

"Do we have an estimate on engine repairs?" Jim asked Sulu. The helmsman was wearing a fresh uniform and looked as determined as ever.

"Two hours, sir," Sulu replied, glancing up at him. He remembered that he'd wanted to talk to these two, so he situated himself between them, a hand on either of their chairs. Both looked at him expectantly.

"Good to know," he said, and with a nod of his head, implied that Sulu should momentarily close his conversational link to the boys and girls downstairs. He thought he'd have to follow the gesture up with a verbal request, but to his surprise, Sulu figured it out immediately and complied. Damn but his crew was quick on the uptake. "Alright Lieutenant, Ensign. I wanted to talk to you about the situation with the mission, and the _Nelson_."

It was clear he had their complete attention and interest. Chekov looked like he wasn't sure why he was being included in this conversation, but was pleased anyway. Sulu got a look on his face which Jim was beginning to think meant he was getting ready to run through flaming hoops. With gusto.

Probably not a bad way of looking at it, all things considered.

He cleared his throat. "The _Nelson's_ offered to take some of our crew onboard for the duration of the Irri mission, while they investigate the Klingon involvement and wait for further orders from Starfleet. I need to send people I can trust, people who'll reflect well on the ship and make sure nobody's bullshitting us," he explained.

Chekov's gaze lit up with understanding. "Ah, I see, Keptan!" he said. "You want us to recommend members of the crew?"

There were puppies that would have trouble competing with that enthusiasm. "Close," he said, leaning a little lower. "I want you two to go." After a beat, he quickly expanded on that idea. "You don't have to if you'd rather not, but I know you're both talented and trustworthy, and I think you can handle it. Obviously it'll be a tremendous pain in the ass. On the other hand, if you don't mind putting up with the _Nelson_ for a while, you might even get a shot at seeing how a normal starship operates." Nobody was under any misconceptions that the _Enterprise_ was normal, after all.

"Captain," Sulu said. "I'll do it." He followed this up with a determined nod, and Jim thought to himself that, at heart, his helmsman was a bit of a badass. Chekov seemed a little more nervous – he was young by _their_ ship's standards, after all, never mind another's – but tossed in his own resolute agreement.

Jim was glad. If anyone would be able to drive his point home, it would be Chekov. After all, he really was fairly representative of the _Enterprise_ as a whole, symbolically. That meant he just had to step back and trust in his ability to be awesome all over everything.

With that settled he only needed to decide who else to send on such an errand, and he was going through that process with one corner of his brain and focusing on the matters at hand with another when he got a call from sickbay. Uhura's face was solemn as she relayed him the message.

"Dr. McCoy has the casualties list ready, sir," she said, and a sort of grim quiet settled all around.

Jim nodded, and handed off the con as he made his way down to get the total of the bad news. The Irri's dead had been sent over to the _Nelson_ to be buried on their homeworld. For the _Enterprise's_, Jim would need to go through their specifications for such things. Who was to be sent home, who wanted burial in space… who had people for him to send condolences to.

Worse, who _didn't_.

Still, even with these thoughts in his head, the first thing he did when he got to sickbay was take one look at Bones and ask, "Have you even slept yet?"

With five-o'clock shadow that gave him a decidedly caveman edge, Bones scowled and immediately changed the subject, handing him a datapad. "There's the list, Jim," he said, and he sounded solemn and exhausted. Even though it wasn't particularly cold, for some reason, it felt that way as he took it from him.

"Take a break, Bones," he said. "We can let the _Nelson's_ CMO handle any major emergencies while you're out."

_That_ suggestion got him the glare to end all glares, and he was treated to a rant about the general incompetence of Dr. Who-the-Fuck-Cares, and how Bones wasn't trusting _his_ sickbay to some idiot CMO who thought having another ten years of medical training under his belt made up for the fact that he kept his brain in his ass. Jim listened to this for a few minutes. Then he moved over to one of the medical tables, and recalled his very basic first-aid training. While Bones was still ranting, distracted, he walked up beside him, patted him on the shoulder, and then injected him with a low dose of neurozine.

He barely had time to enjoy the doctor's flabbergasted expression before he toppled, and Jim caught him to keep him from hitting the floor.

"I believe that would qualify as retribution," he heard Spock's low tones say from nearby, and then his first officer was helping him haul Bones onto the nearest medical bed.

Jim shrugged. "Probably. He still needs the rest," he reasoned, settling his friend down so that he looked more or less comfortable before he turned his full attention to Spock.

The bandages were gone. Spock straightened, going a little still as Jim's gaze moved over the left side of his neck, and his ear. It wasn't as bad as he'd thought it could be. Modern medicine being what it was, scars were exceedingly rare, and Jim supposed they would only last a few years. Unless half-Vulcans were different about that than humans – which they could be. Mostly it was just several spidery lines of paler, greener skin, looking more or less like the fiery bloom of an electrical current as it ran across his neck and up along the bottom half of his ear. The entire area in general was a little discoloured, but that was normal for an injury so recently healed. Otherwise Spock still seemed a bit tired, but more like his usual self.

Apart from the barely-visible apprehension.

"It is irrelevant," he said preemptively, when Jim's gaze moved from the scars to his face.

He paused, looking at Spock, and wondering if he _honestly_ thought Jim would give a shit about some scars. _Can't have that,_ he decided immediately, and then extended a pair of fingers. The gesture was met, but it still didn't seem to be enough, somehow. So – with a quick glance around to make certain he wouldn't be embarrassing his first officer to hell and back – he took a step forward, and leaning, closed his lips very carefully around the bottom of his freshly-healed ear. "Scars are _hot_," he whispered, shooting a wink at the dark gaze which followed him when he stepped back again.

Spock swallowed, and after a time, seemed to relax a bit. And hell, maybe Jim had been wrong. But it never hurt to err on the side of caution.

"A curious assessment," Spock said. "Disfiguration is not typically noted as a positive feature in most species."

Jim gave him a look. "'Disfiguration'?" he asked skeptically. "I've known people who would've paid for tattoos that looked like that. Don't exaggerate, Spock."

His first officer blinked. "It was not my intention to exaggerate," he said. "That is merely the appropriate term-"

"Hey, I just don't think you can qualify something that kickass as a disfigurement. I'm sorry. Not buying it," he insisted. Then his lips curved into a wicked smirk. "Think you'd let me lick it later on?"

A sudden flush flooded his first officer's skin, and his gaze darkened, although he otherwise remained seemingly unmoved. "…I do not believe that would be advisable," he said, sounding just the tiniest bit strained.

Pointedly, Jim sighed in disappointment. "Alright," he replied. "I'll wait. But if you change your mind, let me know."

"… I shall… endeavor to keep you appraised," Spock assured him. "In the meantime, Captain, I wish to return to duty. I believe I am fit." The way he said 'captain' told Jim he was requesting they adopt a certain level of professionalism now, please.

He considered. Instinctively, he simultaneously wanted Spock around, and would have liked to have kept him squirreled away in sickbay until he was operating at one-hundred-percent capacity again. But he knew what it was like to sit and do nothing in a medical facility for too long, and if his first officer was on the bridge with him, he could keep an eye out to make sure he didn't push himself too hard. "If you can get one of the nurses to clear you, I don't have any objections," he decided.

Spock inclined his head, and left to go do just that. Jim watched him for a moment. It was funny, he almost felt like something should be different… and nothing really was. He'd made a resolution, but, he was starting to think it was more like _acknowledging_ a resolution that had pieced itself together all on its own while he wasn't looking. The castle had been built. He'd just put the flag on top.

But after a moment he knew he couldn't distract himself any longer (not that he'd planned it, but it certainly didn't hurt that Spock's appearance had taken his attention) and turned his eyes to the datapad. He scrolled through.

Eight names.

God, it was less than he'd feared and more than he'd hoped. He'd make the arrangements once they got to Vulcan II.

It tore at him. He was responsible for this ship and the people on it. His decisions directly affected their survival, so when people died, it felt like it was his fault. It wouldn't destroy him or anything, because he _knew_ that this was just what _happened_, but it was still a pretty heavy weight. He remembered having his crew make preparations so that they could carry the majority of Irri passengers. At the time, it had seemed like the prudent decision, and he couldn't have predicted otherwise. Now, he knew for a fact that it had gotten some of his people killed.

That was it. Cold fact, even though his intention hadn't been getting people killed, and unless he somehow developed the ability to see the future, no one would blame him for things like that.

He had to do better next time. He wasn't about to reign in their explorations and start asking for diplomatic missions, hell no, but from here on out he was keeping a closer eye on what he let aboard his ship. And he was setting up a redundant security lock system, so if the first one went down, there'd be more than one back-up. He was surprised no one else had done that yet.

They'd handle that along with the repairs. It was as good a time as any, really. He took a moment to deposit the datapad of casualties on his desk, and updated his Captain's Log, before returning to the bridge. By the time he got there Spock was at his post – sitting, even though he usually preferred to stand and move around more – and, thankfully, going slow. Which may or may not have had something to do with the fact that Uhura kept shooting him concerned looks, and _probably_ had something to do with the fact that a lot of his station was still in tiny pieces.

"How are we doing, Mr. Spock?" Jim asked, taking his chair and checking the readings in the armrest.

"Mr. Scott is confident he will be able to get us warp drive within the hour," Spock replied. "Given his propensity for over-estimating his timeframes, I would venture to say that it will be less than that. Communications is fully operational again. Life-support and transporter systems are also functioning to normal standards. The sensor array suffered considerable damage..."

Jim listened to the rest of the run-down. Essentially it boiled down to a lot of work left to be done. When Spock had finished, he spoke. "We should start sending the _Nelson_ their people back soon, in that case." He checked, and found that Malhotra's list of crew candidates had been forwarded to his chair. Settling on the last of his own, he replied with it, and then went over the people she wanted to give him.

All older, experienced officers, most of them in ops or security. He supposed that made sense – both in keeping with her tendencies, and in the fact that they had a decided gap in security. Ops, too, actually, since they still had people at the colony working on equipment repairs.

Why did he feel like this was some kind of weird school exchange program?

Well, either way, if they weren't on the bridge that suited him fairly well, and he was confident in Scotty's ability to shit-kick people into submission not matter how much experience they had on him. He approved of them, and hoped this wasn't going to be as awkward as he thought it was.

It probably would be.

"Mr. Spock, make a note," he said. "If anyone from the _Nelson's_ crew transfer calls me 'son', 'sport', 'young man', or anything other than 'captain' or 'sir', I won't be held responsible for my actions."

"Duly noted, Captain," Spock replied without missing a beat, although he did quirk an eyebrow at him. There was a general drift of amusement across the bridge, then, taking the edge off of things a little. He turned his attention to the helm.

"Mr. Sulu, Mr. Chekov. It seems we'll be heading out soon. You'd better get ready for your temporary assignment," he advised, before turning towards communications. "Lieutenant, mind going through the list I just forwarded you and letting those crewmen know as well? And tell them I'm very sorry, and I'm sure they'll do the _Enterprise_ proud?"

She shook her head at him a little, but did as asked. Relief arrived for Sulu and Chekov, and Jim knew he'd feel a little strange without his normal bridge compliment for the next while.

Still. Spock was back. That counted for a lot.

The rest of the hour passed without incident, the crew exchanges going over smoothly, and Jim speaking briefly with Malhotra to assure her he'd take good care of her people, and elicit a similar response from her. The captain did not seem terribly impressed with his decision to send the 'prodigious seventeen-year-old' over. He figured she'd get past that once she saw what Chekov could do. Hopefully.

Jim would throw his crewmembers some kind of 'welcome back' party in the mess after all this was over either way.

Finally, engineering gave the go-ahead for their return trip to the colony, and with one last thought that none of his crew had better die on the _Nelson_, the _Enterprise_ set course for Vulcan II.

Even in warp, though, it was some time before Jim actually had the opportunity to catch his breath again. They'd reached the colony by then, and between managing his ship, filling out the necessary information to update Starfleet, and dealing with the complications of actually _docking_ a constitution class vessel at Vulcan II's station, he wasn't expecting this day to end much differently than the last one had – him falling over onto his bed, followed swiftly by a lot of unconsciousness.

He was, therefore, both pleasantly surprised and a little daunted to find his first officer waiting in his quarters for him after shift, the chess board already set up. Daunted only because he was quite tired, and knew full well that he wouldn't be able to turn Spock down.

Pleased because, well, if his mind had any say in it, he didn't _want_ to.

"I think you might be hinting that you'd like to play chess, Spock," he noted as he came into the room. A few hours ago he'd sent his first-officer to sickbay, when it seemed that the trials of performing his duties was starting to wear on him. He hadn't gone back there himself – he was more or less avoiding the shit he knew he'd get from Bones – but they must have cleared Spock, or else he probably wouldn't have been in Jim's quarters.

"That would be an accurate assessment," Spock agreed, his eyes narrowing a little on Jim as he made his way over to his desk, and all but fell into his chair. "If you require rest, however, we may play another time."

Jim waved him off. "Nah, it's fine," he insisted. "Just don't expect me to be brilliant right now."

"I am also not yet at peak capacity. We should still be well-matched," Spock replied, and Jim decided he liked that assessment.

"Of course," he agreed. "We're always well-matched." Then, impulsively, he made the first move, and felt a little more at ease when Spock replied in kind. It was a quiet game, sleepy and yet somehow also bold in that sleepiness, and Jim found that winding down with it was actually something of a welcome process. He felt less like a tightened ball of exhausted stress and more like a human being by the time they'd reached a stalemate.

Looking at the board, he kicked back, shifting himself so he was more comfortable and letting out a deeply satisfied sigh. "Damn, I love this," he confessed.

A moment later he blinked his gaze over to Spock, who was looking at him with an inscrutable expression.

"I also find myself appreciative of these games," his first officer replied, and Jim smiled a peculiarly enigmatic smile at him.

Because, really, the game wasn't the important part – even as much as he enjoyed it.

"I think this is the part where I usually try to talk you into having sex with me," he mused.

After a moment, Spock inclined his head. "I will understand if you do not feel inclined towards expending such energies," he replied.

Jim laughed. "There are some things, Spock, which I'm never too tired for. But I think I'll let you go – unless you've reconsidered that whole me-licking-your-neck idea?"

"Good night, Jim."

"Damn. Oh well. Good night, Spock," he replied, not particularly feeling up to standing, but figuring he should make the effort. He saw his first officer to the door, and wasn't expecting much beyond some finger-on-finger action, which seemed both welcome and also distinctly inadequate, all things considered.

That in mind, he decided to throw caution to the wind and instead moved forward, winding his arms around Spock's back, resting his head against his shoulder and savoring the warm wash of his body heat. For all of a moment, Spock stiffened, and he figured it would be better to step back and give him some room again. But then the tension lessened, a little, and a pair of blue-clad arms came up around him.

He let out a breath he hadn't realized he was holding. Moving his head, he kissed Spock's ear again, causing the hands against his shirt tightened their grip momentarily. Spock tilted a little, and Jim was surprised that he went so far as to meet his lips with his own – not intense, but warm and slow. He didn't want to let Spock leave. He really didn't. He had a feeling he would sleep a lot better if he could press his ear to his first officer's chest and listen to him breath, as incredibly sappy as that was. But he also knew that if he got Spock to his bed, Things Would Transpire, and he still needed to convince Spock that he was commitment worthy.

Kind of a daunting task, especially since he didn't know _how_. The longest relationship he had any frame of reference for was his mom and the step-dad he'd had until he was six, which didn't help much.

Their mouths broke apart, then, and Jim trailed a hand up to Spock's neck, running his fingers against the discordant textures of his scar. Spock's hands decided to go a little lower, resting on his hips as he pressed a kiss to the corner of Jim's jaw, just below his ear, and murmured something against his skin.

"What?" Jim asked, not quite making it out. The word hadn't sounded like it was in any human language he knew.

Spock paused, then, stilling for a moment, and Jim thought that perhaps he hadn't meant to say anything at all. Which only made him _more_ curious about what it was that had been whispered so softly to his flesh. He opened his mouth to ask again, moving to pull back a little – and then Spock pointedly, and with clear intent, _distracted_ him, catching his mouth with his own and winding their tongues together, hot and intense and very direct.

It worked like a charm. Jim's brain went happily sailing away as he met the kiss with equal ferocity, and when they broke apart, his breathing was ragged and his hands hopelessly twisted in Spock's uniform. Not quite ready to relinquish the contact yet, he planted a third passionate, meaningful press against his first officer's mouth, shifting his body and bringing them together and _almost_ going far further than he meant to because it was so warm and fiery and _Spock_ and he'd started it _again_, so dammit, self-restraint could go to hell…

Spock's hands moved up, pulling them apart, unwinding Jim's hands from his shirt and then pressing their fingers and palms together.

Another surprise – it looked like he was getting some more of his self-control back. Or maybe he just had it right then, although so far as Jim knew, it had been a while since he'd meditated. Their hands were still touching as Spock disconnected their lips.

"Good night, Jim," he said again, and before Jim could reply, turned and left.

He stood there for a moment, panting for breath and hopelessly aroused, and then with a growl banged a fist against the nearest wall. He was seriously contemplating just walking up to Spock and saying 'hey, I want to marry you! So let's do that', but if he did then Spock would probably think he was only doing it for the sex, and then he might not trust _any_ of Jim's assurances that he wanted to do this whole 'together' thing afterwards.

Still.

Abstinence was _hard_.

Kind of like Jim. Dammit.

---

**Author's Note:** Not as long as I'd originally planned it to be, but then I got here and this actually seemed like an okay place to stop for now. The last arc is 'Vulcan II' – after all, Spock got to meet Jim's only living parent. Turnabout is fair play.

Also, anyone who's interest should check my profile for links to 'Home'-related stuff involving other people. And if you've got anything 'Home'-related you think should be on there, let me know where it is, and I'll link to it.


	29. Chapter 29

Scotty estimated that, all told, it would take about a week to finish all the necessary repairs on the ship. Their first few days being docked at Vulcan II passed largely without incident – they were tiring, as everyone scrambled to get a good hold on the systems, and re-organize things that had been thrown into disarray in the haste to get a few quick fixes done. But uneventful. Jim spent the majority of his time running around his ship like a madman, overseeing this or that and half the time just trusting that his chief engineer wasn't going to blow them up, and that Spock actually knew what he was talking about. Giotto and his security team were _not_ happy with the temporary transfers from the _Nelson_, and he got the distinct impression that only the lieutenant-commander's sense of professionalism was keeping him from trying to eject them out of the nearest garbage disposal hatch. Matters weren't helped much when the memorial service for the fallen officers was conducted, although the _Nelson'_s crewmen were nothing but polite and sympathetic about it.

Jim stopped trying to talk Spock into having sex with him.

His thinking went like this – he wanted to convince Spock that he was, essentially, in this shit for real now. He was going to _do_ this courting thing, and not just in a 'isn't this ridiculous?' kind of way. The only means he could think of getting that message across (other than just flat-out saying it, and he wanted to make sure it was _believable_ when he did that) was to, more or less, respect the rules of the game. He figured he'd be able to do this for about a week before he was back to trying to seduce him – fact of his nature, really – but getting some concrete, see-I-can-do-your-Vulcan-stuff groundwork in seemed like a good idea.

He was very proud of the fact that he could now make it through a chess game or a meal without implying that the whole thing would be livened up by some sex, as if sex was a kind of all-purpose seasoning. Even though everything _did _go better with it.

Spock was starting to give him some strange looks, too. Jim hoped they were 'wow, Jim is so awesome, it would be completely logical to get all married and shit' looks, but he honestly couldn't tell.

And then, on their third day in dock – right around the end of his duty shift – he got a message from an old friend. At his request, Uhura patched it through to his quarters.

"Hey old man!" he greeted cheerfully, settling into his seat and grinning at the elder Spock, who regarded him with his usual, placid expression. "This is a change – _you_ called _me_." He'd been in the process of setting up the chess set when the message came in from the bridge.

"Indeed," Spock confirmed, and Jim considered what it would be like to have his own Spock around when he was that age.

Then he considered human and Vulcan life-spans, and quickly shifted the gears of his brain as he remembered that he would be dead by the time his Spock was that age. "What do you need?" he asked, clearing his throat and wondering if this was just a social call. He was keeping fairly up to speed with the equipment repairs on the surface, and so far hadn't gotten any bad news.

Dark eyes softened at him. "After conferring with several members of the council, it has been agreed that your crew should be permitted to take brief periods of shore leave in the colony," Spock informed him.

Jim gave him a surprised look. "Really?" he asked. "But I thought you guys were keeping to yourselves, what with… you know… the emotional stuff." As he understood it, _no one_ outside of necessary personnel and residents had been in the colony yet – mostly because things were too unstable to allow it. In more ways than one.

Spock inclined his head. "That is true. However, despite the concerns of several council members, it would be inadvisable for the colony to allow itself extensive isolation. Particularly from the rest of the Federation. Given your crew's experience with my alternate self, and your close familiarity with our situation, it was agreed that some carefully monitored interactions would prove beneficial as a stepping stone in our development here."

"You mean, you want my crew to come down and help with a social experiment?" Jim clarified. In all honesty, he was a little curious to see the colony – unpleasant atmospheres notwithstanding. And he was sure that his Spock would be interested in it.

Again, the elder Spock inclined his head. "I will understand, of course, if you do not feel you can accommodate this request. The repairs on the _Enterprise_ are of paramount importance, and I would not imagine that many of the crew would find the prospect of visiting the colony appealing."

Jim shrugged. "Maybe not," he agreed. "But I'd like to come down. It'd be nice to see you in person again."

"I must profess a similar inclination towards such an encounter."

Which was Spock for 'hey, me too!'. It was funny how, despite their differences, both Spocks pretty much translated the same way. Jim grinned. "I'll run it past my crew," he offered. "Anyone who's interested can go down during their off-shifts. Anything I should tell them to do? Or not do?"

Spock considered this. "Provocative behavior should be avoided," he advised at length.

Jim gave him a funny look.

"I refer to 'provocative' in terms of any action designed to provoke an emotional response," Spock immediately clarified, sounding fondly amused as he realized the misunderstanding.

"Oh, I get it," he replied. "For a minute I thought you were worried I'd send them all down with aphrodisiacs and some soft-core porn to lighten the mood." He knew he had a well-deserved reputation, after all, but come on. It was a colony full of _Vulcans_. If Spock's behavior was any indication, then when it came to sex, they were kind of terrified of it. Or, well, suppressing their terror of it. Suppressing the sex, too – the before-marriage kind, anyway.

The old man's lips twitched.

"I would not expect you to violate Starfleet regulations in such a frivolous manner, Jim," he assured him. At that point the call for the door chimed, and his own Spock's even tones requested entry in a purely polite gesture before he walked in.

Jim grinned at him. "Hey Spock! I was just talking to you!" he said brightly, and his first officer looked a little puzzled until he noticed the activated console on the desk. From his angle he couldn't see who Jim was talking to, but with that kind of clue, it wouldn't have been hard to guess.

"…I see," he said a bit stiffly, and then seemed to hesitate for a moment at the door.

"Sorry, old man," Jim said, genuinely apologetic. "We'll have to cut this short for now, it's chess time."

An odd look passed over the elder Spock's face at that, and for a moment, Jim wondered if he'd said something wrong. "Chess?" he was asked. "…May I observe the game?"

Shrugging, he sent a questioning glance to his own Spock, who, after a beat, moved towards the desk and took his seat. "I have no objections," he said, although he still sounded tense, and Jim curiously rearranged the console so that the old man could watch their game.

"Did you and – you know, the other me – play?" he asked. The matches were something they both enjoyed, so he guessed he could see it, although they'd come into it so randomly that he'd never really considered it before. He glanced at his Spock, who also looked just the tiniest bit interested in his other self's answer.

The elder Spock gave a marginal nod. "We did," he confirmed. "Both of us had already won several tournaments and championships before we ever played together. Our mutual interest was unexpected, but welcome."

"Fascinating," the young Spock mused.

"Indeed?"

Jim shared a look with his first officer. "We just started playing," he explained, considering his strategy. It was a little distracting to try and hold a conversation with two Spocks at the same time. He figured loose and crazy would be the way to go, banking on the idea that his Spock would also be a little distracted, and therefore over-estimate the scope of his plans and wind himself into a knot trying to out-think them. That was the most sure-fire way to beat Spock – get him to over-process things.

The elder Spock raised an eyebrow at him. "You mean to say that you were not in the academy chess club?" he asked. Jim made a funny sound partway between a snort and a cough and gave him an incredulous look.

"Chess club?" he asked. "_Seriously?_" Well, there was another point to support the 'alternate-timeline-me was a whole other guy' theory.

"There is no reason why the concept should seem offensive to you," his Spock pointed out evenly, moving a pawn and seeming to decide that focusing on the board – and not his other self, or Jim – was the way to go. "You have expressed an enjoyment of the game to me on several occasions. Had you discovered this tendency prior to our first match, it is likely you would have sought out other skilled players."

"Yeah. Sure," he replied, deciding to just go for it and put his Bishop out there. "I completely would have done that. Chess club would have been my thing. I'd have been Mr. Chess Club."

"I do not doubt that your proficiency at this game would have led you to achieve a high status among your fellow players. However, I take it, by your tone, that you find something regarding this concept ludicrous," his Spock noted, and he seemed to relax a little as they settled into the familiar ease of pieces and board and flowing conversation.

Jim shook his head. "Let's just say that my liking chess has absolutely nothing to do with my willingness to join a club about it," he replied easily, and then deliberated a time before making an utterly random move, calculated only in that it didn't open him up to any particular assaults. "And how do you know I'm 'proficient' at this? We've only ever played each other. For all we know, we're doing it completely wrong."

Spock gave him a look. "I am able to process the rules to such a game quite adeptly. Given that you are capable of defeating me in play, it is only reasonable to assume that you possess a natural affinity for it."

He laughed. "Oh, right," he said. "So you're a super-genius, and if I'm able to beat you at something, then it must be because I've got a knack for it?"

"Precisely."

"Just for that, I'm kicking your ass," he declared, leveling a finger at his first officer and settling more fully into the game. He almost forgot that there was another Spock watching the two of them. His own got some of that glint to his eyes that meant he was looking forward to decimating Jim's forces. Or trying to, anyway.

Let him try.

There was a certain exhilaration to playing Spock when they were both gunning for victory. Of course, Jim always tried to win, but there were times when he took it less seriously than others. When the conversation was more important, or he was thinking of other things, and just enjoying the quiet of himself and Spock doing something together. Those games had their appeal (it had pointy ears and sat across from him). But _these_ kinds of games were engaging in and of themselves, like the very first one they'd played. Maybe it was because if he won, he'd know that he wrung every ounce of that victory himself, since Spock sure as hell wasn't going easy on him.

The conversation died and focus reigned as the match progressed, and Jim changed his strategy out of its purely chaotic form when an opportunity presented itself by chance to give him a more defined structure. It helped, but Spock was employing the brunt of his ruthless efficiency. Soon enough Jim was frowning at the board, feeling the stirrings of frustration – it was bad enough to lose, it was worse still to lose after he'd already boasted about winning. His first officer wasn't just shutting his moves down, he was cutting through them like a knife.

He took a long moment, considering the board. Thinking. There was something there, and he _knew_ it, he just had to put it all together.

"Perhaps forfeiture would be prudent?"

"Shut up," Jim advised absently, and missed the faintest twitch at the corners of his Spock's mouth.

Ah _ha_, there it was. If he played his cards right, he'd at least be able to take the black queen. Grinning, he made his move, and then looked up at Spock from under his brows. "Forfeit. You wish," he said, and Spock quirked an eyebrow at him.

"I can assure you that I have no preference between claiming victory through your submission, or my own conquest," he was informed. "Either way, I do not believe you will win."

Six turns later, Jim won.

Well, really, after _that_ it was either win or jump him, and jumping him just wasn't an option.

He was in full-blown cocky bastard mode when he leaned back into his chair and finally remembered that the old man was watching. Which then made him muse that it was a really, _really_ good thing he'd won, because he'd forgotten that and it would have been distinctly awkward to break his streak of self-control in front of that particular witness. Although, presumably he'd seen it all before.

The cockiness balloon deflated a little when he looked over to find that the old man was regarding them both with interest. Then, very briefly, he slid his eyes closed, and took a breath. "Fascinating," he said, for the second time.

"It is?" Jim asked, glancing back at the chess board, where his Spock was methodically clearing the pieces away and avoiding both of their gazes.

"You play… differently," the elder Spock explained. "Perhaps it is only to be expected."

The younger Spock paused, then, and glanced at his other self. "Would you consider recounting a match for us?" he asked, surprising Jim, who hadn't expected him to actually _talk_ to his other self at this point. "I find myself… curious to observe the differences."

Both Spocks regarded one another solemnly for a moment. Jim got the impression that there was some kind of important staring contest going on, but since he wasn't a mind-reader, and both of them seemed to be avoiding their usual 'tells', he got up to retrieve a drink. A minute later he came back, plunking a glass of water down beside his first officer and downing his own rather casually as the stare-off drew to its conclusion.

The elder Spock inclined his head.

"I guess I'll be other-me, then," Jim said. "Black or white?"

"White," the old man informed him. So, no radical departures from the outset. He helped his Spock set up the pieces again, wondering just what his first officer hoped to learn from replaying an alternate universe's chess game.

But he seemed intent upon it, and it looked like his other self got it, too. At first Jim found the whole thing to be just a little bit boring – _recreating_ a match wasn't the same as playing one out, although he was a little curious as to who would win. Mostly because he wondered if the old man would pick a game he'd lost or not. Or maybe a stalemate? But those were kind of annoying.

Gradually, however, he started to get a little more interested. Once he began to figure out what his other self's plans were, to see more or less where he'd been going, he appreciated the experience better. There was a lot more structure to his style of play. Still a few seeds of chaos, but he wondered – was it because they essentially thought alike, or because chaos worked well against Spock, and so was an appropriate strategy? The movements of the black pieces were interesting, too. They were nowhere near as aggressive. Jim noted openings that his Spock would have taken, but which the other seemed to avoid – cutting, biting moves that would have been ruthlessly efficient if he'd pulled them off. It was almost more like their casual games, except he got the distinct impression that both players were, more or less, intentionally going easy on each other for some reason.

Or… he frowned, considering as the older Spock's voice instructed him, and his hand moved to comply. No, they were each still trying to win. It was more like they'd added several unspoken rules to their game. A certain, token friendliness, he supposed. The other Spock seemed to try and maneuver his forces to get the white king into check while taking as few other pieces as possible. The other version of himself seemed to employ as many strategies as he could into his movements, and he wondered, upon seeing this, how much more he _wasn't_ seeing.

Black won the match. Jim looked up at his Spock, who was looking down at the board with a speculative expression.

"…Fascinating," he said after a moment, concurring with the old man's initial sentiment. Then he looked up, and caught Jim's eye, and for a moment it was all very surreal. This idea of other versions of _them_, of another timeline, another Spock and Kirk playing chess on the _Enterprise_.

He let out a breath, and moved to put the pieces away, shaking his head and allowing the sensation to pass. It was kind of like vertigo. But when it was gone, the universe had righted itself again. Somehow it seemed normal to have two Spocks watching his hands as he organized the pieces and cleared the board away.

"So," he said. "You guys got bored of the standard rules and started making some up?"

The elder Spock seemed to consider that. "In a sense," he agreed. "That was the last match I played against him. By then, victory seemed less important than the path taken to it. But the majority of our games lacked the… ferocity of yours."

Jim wondered why everything today seemed to be making him think of the fact that his other self was dead.

"Sometimes we play nice," he said.

"Particularly these past few games, barring this evening's match," his Spock added, and Jim glanced at him, because there was just the faintest negative undercurrent to his voice.

He frowned a little, and wondered if his first officer was getting tired of their usual chess. His thoughts were interrupted by the other Spock.

"As diverting as our activities have been, I must attend to other matters now," he said calmly. There was just the faintest sign of tension around his eyes, however. "I look forward to seeing you, Jim."

"Me too," Jim replied easily, and with a brief smile nodded his farewell, and closed the connection. Then he looked back at his Spock, who was drinking his water and not-scowling at the desk. At least, he was pretty sure that was a not-scowl. It could have also been concentration. He decided to get a better angle on it, and lowered his back onto the smooth surface. Then he slid himself forward a little, until his head covered the patch which was being not-scowled at, and stared up at his first officer.

The flaw in his plan became apparent when his actions changed Spock's expression, as his eyebrows went up and he regarded Jim in perplexity.

"I do not suppose you have an intended purpose in sprawling across your desk?" he asked.

"Well, kind of," Jim replied, and then reaching up, gave in to temptation and ran than back of his forefinger along the dark line of Spock's left eyebrow. It quirked in response. But other than that, he didn't get any reaction – just patient regard until he grinned and straightened himself back up again.

No innuendos or anything. _Good job, me_.

"That game was fun," he decided. "A little weird, but fun."

"Indeed," Spock replied with just the tiniest bit of stiffness. "If I may ask, to what did my alternate self refer when he expressed his sense of anticipation at 'seeing you'?"

That put a grin on Jim's face. Happily, he relayed the news about the colony's decision – and request – to have members of the crew come down and poke around. He could tell Spock was interested. Mostly it was a reasonable, educated guess, but the contemplative expression on his first officer's face also helped. He hadn't ever actually been to the colony yet, after all.

"I was thinking we could go down," he admitted. "I don't know if anyone else will want to – I mean, there's exploration, and then there's walking into an oven. But I'd like to see it."

Spock tilted his head a little. "You will have to break your successful streak of avoiding Dr. McCoy's attention if that is the case," he pointed out. "It would be unwise to visit the surface without medical protection against the heat and thinner atmosphere."

Jim winced. "Oh yeah," he said. "Do you think he's still mad at me?"

"In all likelihood."

He sighed, and then ran a hand through his hair. Well, it had been a few days. Even _Bones_ got over things eventually, and really, that had been for his own good!

"Come with me and make sure he doesn't kill me?" he asked, moving around the desk and closing a half-jokingly beseeching hand around Spock's right arm. Spock looked at him, and after a moment, shifted his head slightly. Jim's breath momentarily caught in his throat, as the movement unintentionally put the curve of his unscarred ear and the line of his jaw on almost poetic display.

"If you request it," Spock said. "Although it would be inadvisable to depart at this time, given that the temperatures in the colony will be at their midday peak."

Jim swallowed, let go of his arm, and shrugged. "If I'm going to get drugged up for it anyway, does it really make a big difference?"

"Exposure to such temperatures for an extended period of time could prove fatal to humans," Spock informed him with conviction. "Our exploration would be limited to indoor facilities with environmental control systems. I do not believe you would find this satisfactory."

No, Jim wouldn't, although he somehow doubted he'd spend a lot of time running around Vulcan II's surface anyway. Spock shifted so he was standing just a tiny bit closer. "It would perhaps be more advisable to depart in the morning. In the meantime… we shall have to occupy ourselves with other activities."

It took Jim a moment to realize he was being asked for a 'kiss'. He smiled, and pressed his fingers against Spock's.

"Do you have any suggestions for how we should pass the time?" Spock asked, his voice low as a warm surge spread up Jim's arm.

Oh damn.

_Don't suggest sex!_

His mind drew a complete blank. He blinked, and felt the warm buzz of fingers against his own, and tried to think of the things that normal people in normal relationships did. Dinner – they'd already eaten. Chess had been played. What else?

Goddammit, they _had_ to do things other than flirt and talk and play chess and eat meals together and work, didn't they?

…Although, that actually was a lot of things, now that he thought about it.

"Jim," Spock said, finally breaking the contact of their touch, and regarding him carefully. "Are you unwell?"

He blinked at him, and noticed the flicker of concern to his expression, betrayed by the slightest furrowing of his brows and downturn of his lips.

"I'm fine, Spock," he said, a little confused as to why it would seem otherwise.

There was a pause. Spock's eyes narrowed marginally. He shifted a bit as this gaze assessed him, apparently looking for some sign of illness or falsehood.

"Are you desirous of sexual intercourse?"

Jim almost fell over. He gaped, disbelieving, but Spock seemed absolutely serious. And still quietly assessing. "I, uh – are you offering?" he asked. Because that would be an incredibly awesome, if wholly unexpected, turn of events. But he was still confused. There had been a Plan, and it seemed Spock had changed pages on him somewhere along the way, without any warning or apparent reason.

"Not at this juncture," Spock replied, which was at least the _predictable _answer, if not the preferable one. "However, this is the third consecutive evening we have passed in one another's company during which you have not made any attempt to convince me of the merits of such activities. What is the motivation for this shift in your behavior?" he asked, and Jim blinked.

Did he really talk about sex so often that people thought he was _sick_ when he stopped bringing it up?

Spock was giving him an expectant look.

Apparently so.

"…Well…" This wasn't at all how he planned on having this conversation. In point of fact he hadn't actually planned this conversation at all, but he was sure that an abrupt interrogation in his quarters wasn't the best way to confess his growing sense of devotion.

Something shifted ever so briefly in Spock's features. "If your physical interest in me has been reduced due to our increased proximity, or alterations in my appearance, then I will take whatever steps necessary to rectify the situation."

Just when Jim was beginning to think he might be able to pick his jaw back up again, he got hit with _that_. "Spock-" he managed to say, before he was cut off by a pair of lips pressed lightly to his own. It was a chaste, sealed, almost sorrowful kiss, and he wondered how he'd managed to screw up when he was trying to very hard to do the exact opposite.

Maybe he was trying _too_ hard. Like Spock and over-thinking his strategies.

"If you can inform me of an advisable course of action, I will take it," Spock said once he'd pulled back, his expression intent, and Jim felt like a heel.

"There's nothing…" he trailed off, the sentiment of 'there's nothing _wrong_ with you' left unfinished as he wrestled with the appropriate response to this. Of course, it was a bad place to leave off in the tangled jumble of his thoughts, and for a moment, Spock stiffened. Perceiving rejection.

Damn. Jim wouldn't let his floundering screw this up. "I'm just trying to do this right!" he finally blurted, moving away and running a hand through his hair in agitation. "I don't want you to think that this is all just because I'd like to have sex with you!"

Spock's eyebrows flew up.

Jim didn't know if that was a good sign or a bad one at this point. He slumped into the nearest chair, and wondered if they would ever be able to communicate without misunderstandings. Sometimes it was like he knew Spock so well – and then at others, it was as if they were speaking completely different languages. He moved his hand across his face.

After a moment, there was the sound of footsteps. He tipped his head up to find Spock regarding him solemnly.

"I believe," his first officer said. "That the appropriate response under these circumstances would be 'thank you'."

…Okay. Still speaking other languages, it seemed.

"What?" Jim asked.

"Though I did not request it," Spock said. "I appreciate your endeavors to reassure me of our situation. However, such measures are unnecessary." At that, he extended a hand, and very lightly rested one finger against the skin of Jim's knuckles. "Intent is something which would be difficult to misinterpret through our repeated physical contact. If your interest were purely sexual, I would have become aware of that fact by now."

Jim stared down at the lone, warm touch against his skin, the contrasting tints of their complexions and the narrow lines of that single digit.

"Huh," he said. Then he looked back up, and shifted his hand a little, running his thumb along Spock's index finger. The solemnity drifted from his first officer's expression, gaining a deep, familiar spark instead. Then the touch was retracted.

"You may resume your typical behavior," Spock said. "If I have cause to doubt your motivations, I will inform you of it."

His hand was tingling. It was a very, very pleasant tingle. After a moment, Jim grinned, and winked.

"You like it," he said, and Spock gave him an inquiring look. "It's not that you just don't _mind _it. You like that I'm always trying to talk you into bed. You think it's _hot_, don't you?"

"I find our debates mentally stimulating," Spock replied, but there was a certain _rightness_ to him now, as if they'd found comfortable footing again. With a flash of insight, Jim wondered if it wasn't more reassuring for Spock that he _tried_ to seduce him than that he didn't. He probably thought that Jim's sexual interest would wander away. As long as it was focused on _him_, he knew where it was.

Probably not the healthiest of mental attitudes. His first officer really was as much of a bundle of issues as himself.

"_Mentally_ stimulating, sure," Jim said, sliding up from the chair. Spock's eyes followed him as he circled him slowly, looking him up and down with a pointedly assessing gaze. After a moment, he stopped dead in front of him, and folded his arms. "Wanna make-out?" he asked.

A faint twitch of the lips. "I do not believe that would be advisable."

Jim leaned forward a little, grinning like a loon. "I didn't ask if you thought it was _advisable_," he pointed out, but otherwise didn't make any moves. The threat of emotional manipulation was still real – but he wanted to play. Just a bit.

Okay, well, to be honest he wanted to do much more than that, but he was being realistic here.

"You have given me cause to suppress many impulses. Is that a satisfactory answer?" Spock said, raising an eyebrow at him, as if daring him to make another move.

Jim quickly, happily, and gently gave him the most casual kiss of his life. The briefest peck, almost like an equivalent to a pat on the shoulder. "It'll do," he decided, and then moved back. Given their history of encounters, he was almost surprised when Spock didn't half-ways jump him. _He's getting better,_ he mused, and he was honestly just a little bit disappointed. In a selfish kind of way.

Still, at least he didn't require any one-on-one sessions with Mr. Right Hand, and his first officer wasn't rushing from the room in a flurry of pent-up frustration. "Any plans for the rest of the evening, Spock?" he asked. "Meditation? Science projects? Extra work?"

Spock folded his arms and made a mildly expressive, non-committal gesture. "All are promising options," he said.

Jim snapped his fingers. "I know," he said. "Let's go to the rec room. We'll call it a date."

"A date?"

"Yeah," he said, curling on hand along Spock's wrist and lightly tapping their forefingers together, before he pulled him out of his quarters, and relinquished his hold. "I hear that's what you normally do in these kinds of situations. You go on dates." According the rumors and most forms of romantic media, anyway.

"I see," Spock replied. The corridor around them was brightly lit, the emergency lights no longer necessary, and having the openness back was welcoming and comforting. "And what is involved in a 'date'?" he asked, although Jim was sure he was familiar with the concept.

"You know," he said, glancing at him sideways. "Uhura must've mentioned it. She seems like the dating kind."

They fell into easy step alongside one another, neither one noticing the matched rhythm of their pace, or that their strides were moving in time. Spock seemed to mull over his response for a moment. "I believe a 'date' is when two parties engage in frivolous activities, such as dining or viewing entertainment, for the purposes of assessing romantic compatibility?"

"Pretty much."

There was a pause.

"…Interesting," Spock said. "Your demeanor would imply that you believe we have not been on a 'date' before."

Jim gave him an inquiring glance when they came up to the turbolift. "Well, we haven't," he reasoned.

Then he actually thought about it.

They ate almost every meal together these days. Sometimes they just sort of fell into it alongside one another, but at other times Spock would 'request' his presence. And Jim just thought he was being _polite_... but…

His eyes widened. He looked over at Spock again, who was watching him with interest, and just the vaguest hints of amusement.

"…Holy shit."

"There are times when you are not the most perceptive of men," Spock informed him seriously, but his eyes betrayed the fact that he seemed to think this was the funniest damn thing ever.

"But you didn't call them dates!" Jim said accusingly, and wondered how just how long he'd been 'dating' Spock for. He felt faintly embarrassed for not catching on to it any sooner.

Spock gave him a purely innocent look. "I was unaware that such activities required obvious labeling beforehand."

"Yeah, actually, they do! Generally people specify that shit!" Jim said, feeling his cheeks heat a little, and ducking his head a bit as the doors to the turbolift opened.

"My apologies," Spock said, still looking quietly amused. It made him seem more like his other self, actually. "I shall endeavor to designate our interactions more clearly in the future."

They were about to exit onto the open corridor when Jim actually looked up, and found himself caught within sight of his scowling CMO. Who was apparently leaving the deck they were entering. And scowling. And walking towards them.

It was interesting that his luck would run out so close to the point where he couldn't avoid it anymore. Under the circumstances, Jim did the only mature, sensible thing he could think of.

He hit the command for the door again.

"_Goddammit,_ Jim-"

Bones was cut-off as the turbolift door swished shut, and they started moving back the way they'd come.

"You realize that it will be necessary to consult with Dr. McCoy in the morning, regardless of whether or not you do so beforehand?" Spock asked him. Jim was still standing behind him. With an amused and frustrated sound, he leaned his head forward so that it rested between his first officer's shoulder-blades. "…You also realize that you will now have to face him in an undoubtedly further antagonized frame of mind, and within reach of his medical equipment?"

"…Shit."

"The trauma your irrational behavior will likely cause you is unfortunate," Spock informed him solemnly, and Jim couldn't help but laugh, his gaze blocked by a vast expanse of warm blue.

"He's going to kill me," he mused. Then he moved away, patting his first officer's back where his forehead had rested, and sighing disconsolately. "Try not to say anything embarrassing at my funeral service, okay, Spock? Just tell everyone how cool I was. Maybe play up my sexual prowess and sheer, magnificent awesomeness."

Spock graced him with a tolerant look.

With the possibility of being hunted down by an angry best friend now looking increasingly likely, Jim then proceeded to wheedle Spock into allowing him to hang around in his quarters for a while instead. He retrieved a datapad with some of the reports he still had left to double-check from his own desk, and, feeling a certain urge to sprawl, flopped onto a patch of floor by Spock's meditation mat. His first officer cast him a glance, and began settling several candles around the room.

"Going to meditate?" Jim asked curiously, holding the datapad over his head. The smooth grey of the ceiling provided an interesting contrast to the black casing.

"I shall attempt it," Spock replied. "It should prove an intriguing challenge, particularly given your state of wakefulness."

Jim grinned at him. "Want me to make it _more_ challenging?" he asked suggestively. Spock lit one of his candles, and the familiar scent drifted through the room, sleepy and pleasantly spiced.

"That will not be necessary," he replied, a little dryly.

Minutes later Jim had only the fairly dim light of the screen and the flicker of fire to read by, but it wasn't an enormous hindrance. He could have moved to give Spock a little more space while he meditated, but there was something undeniably pleasant about simply lying on his back, next to the mat, and having that quiet proximity. He decided not to bother questioning it at all. It was just one of those things, now, he guessed, that came with this. Even when the floor started to get uncomfortable, and he had to shift his arms and take a break from reading, it was still fairly nice. Eventually he gave up on the task altogether, and instead tried to listen to Spock's breathing.

It was very faint, and very rhythmic. He turned his head, admiring the candlelit profile, and noting the position of his hands. Resting on his knees – not forming any particular gesture. Huh. It was almost casual, but Spock was still clearly meditating. As far as Jim could tell, anyway. His facial features were set, and he wasn't moving at all. From his angle he had a pretty good view of the scar which marked his skin, too, although it looked even less pronounced in the dim light. It was like someone had taken care to burn a bit of chaos against the rest of his orderly appearance.

Jim felt momentarily, unaccountably guilty for it.

The guilt swelled, mingling with a frustration and an odd sense of rejection. Not for Spock – although he couldn't _quite_ pinpoint what it actually _was_ for. It twined itself into a hard knot, however, destroying the pleasant peace of the moment and filling him with a namelessly restless, negative emotion. He had an idea that it had something to do with the chess match they'd played earlier, although the game hadn't bothered him at the time. Or maybe it was from _before_ that, when he'd looked at the other Spock and considered, however briefly, his own death.

There was something frustrating him about this. Not just in the usual, sexual way, either, although that definitely wasn't helping. There was something about this business of stillness and life and alternate lives that had sunk in, and was _getting_ to him.

Inevitability.

His eyes widened as he pinpointed it, and then sat up, quietly moving to sit in one of the room's chairs. He was sure Spock had noticed, but a quick glance and a moment's pause led him to think that he was going to carry on regardless.

Jim moved to his more comfortable seat, and watched him, silently, considering.

"You are troubled."

He blinked at the assertion, because the only thing on Spock which had moved were his lips.

"I'm fine," he denied, wondering if something in his actions had betrayed his sudden agitation. Probably. He didn't see how Spock would know, otherwise, unless the sounds of his movement alluded to it.

"If you are having difficulties with your reports, I would be willing to assist you," Spock offered.

"Thanks," he replied. "But I think I'm doing alright with it. Go back to meditating – I don't think you're doing a really stellar job of avoiding distractions right now."

"…You make an excellent point," Spock conceded, and afterwards went silent again. Jim considered the quarters around him, hot and dry, but he was getting a bit more used to that. As long as he didn't overdo anything, it could be kind of pleasant – like a sauna, but without the moisture. The lack of moisture was really the hardest part about it. He wondered if Spock had troubles with phlegm, since he had such a high natural preference for dry air. It didn't _seem_ like he did.

And trying to distract himself with random thoughts wasn't working. He still felt like something unpleasant had crawled under his skin.

Spock let out another soft breath, uneven to his pattern. "What is disturbing you?" he asked.

"Nothing," Jim insisted, surprised again. "I'm just sitting here."

"…Come here," Spock advised, still keeping his eyes shut, and not moving anything but his lips. Jim frowned, considering staying where he was just for the hell of it. He wasn't particularly obliging when he was in a bad mood, however unmerited that mood should be. But after a beat, he found his curiosity won out, and he moved over to where Spock was sitting. Just staring down at him was awkward, especially when he wasn't looking back up at him. So, Jim lowered himself onto the floor, just in front of the mat, and waited.

He didn't have to wait long.

"Close your eyes, and calm your breathing," Spock advised evenly. Jim blinked at him.

"You want me to meditate?" he said.

"It is preferable to requesting that you depart," his first officer informed him, still looking more or less like a chatty statue. Not that you'd really call it 'chatty' by any standards _other_ than a statue's. Jim wondered how he could be disturbing when all he'd done was sit down.

"I hate to break it to you, Spock, but I'm not Vulcan," he said.

There was the barest hint of motion to Spock's face, so brief it might have been imagined. "I am aware of that," he said. "Humans are capable of meditative processes. Simply not to the degree which Vulcans are. You may leave or stay, of course, at your discretion, but if you remain then it would only be logical to use such an opportunity productively."

Jim sighed, and glanced at the door. Then again, he supposed he was always one for trying new things. Shifting himself into a more comfortable position, he sighed, and then closed his eyes and tried to focus on his breathing. That wasn't hard – breathing was important for exercise and movement, too, so evening it out was simple enough. With his eyes closed he became a little more aware of oppressive, hot, candle-scented room around him, though. It didn't help his mood much.

Spock spoke up again, his cool and even tones advising him through the process which his alternate self had once described. It didn't work too well. Jim was incapable of cataloguing his body to the conscious degree which a Vulcan was, and when they progressed to the stage where emotions were 'dealt with', he found that his attempts at focusing his attention that way only increased his sense of frustration and unpleasantness.

"You must close it off, like shutting a door," Spock insisted, and Jim felt like irrationally lashing out at him. His anxiety burned a hole in his chest. The rhythm of his breathing broke, and he curled a hand against the floor, suddenly brilliantly aware of his every discomfort, every unpleasant sentiment, the drop of sweat tickling irritatingly down his back and tangled, gnarled mess of emotion in his chest.

He couldn't do it. It didn't work. He _hated_ this…

"Jim," Spock said, and he whipped his eyes open, ready to tell him to take his meditative bullshit and shove it…

Only to find that Spock was regarding him carefully, his trance utterly broken.

The words died on his lips, diffusing a little as he found himself able to breathe again, without having to focus everything inward.

"I believe I was mistaken," Spock said quietly. "It would seem that such methods are counter-productive to you. Forgive me, my intent was to render aid, not to exacerbate your situation."

Jim sucked in a deep breath. "…It's alright," he said, not even bothering to wonder how Spock was so certain that he'd made things worse instead of better. "I think the only Vulcan things that have suited me are you and your candles."

"Interesting. Particularly considering that neither of your choices would qualify as wholly Vulcan," Spock noted. "The candles I favor incorporate several scents from Earth. They seemed only appropriate when I selected them," he explained.

Jim shook his head. "You have hybrid candles?" he asked. Spock inclined his head by way of confirmation.

"My physiology favors my Vulcan heritage. As do I myself, and indeed, my candles _are_ primarily Vulcan in their design. But I can no more deny my humanity than I could deny my arm or leg… and I am beginning to think there is more to that than I once believed," Spock confessed. "I would be curious as to your insights to why this attempt at meditation failed."

"What?" Jim asked. "You mean why it didn't work for me?" His first officer nodded. He shrugged, still not fully restored to his good mood. "I don't know," he admitted. "I guess my mind just doesn't work like that. The more you tell me to ignore something, the more aware of it I am."

"Fascinating," Spock said. "Even your focus is rebellious." He didn't sound condemning when he spoke. Jim gave him an annoyed look anyway.

"I think I should go," he decided. "I'm not going to be great company right now."

A hand extended to his arm, halting him briefly with a light touch. "Jim," Spock said. "If you are inclined to share your thoughts, I would not be adverse to hearing them."

There was a request in that, somewhere.

Jim scowled and ran a hand along the back of his neck. "I don't know," he admitted. "It just… felt _strange_ all of a sudden, to think about all of this. I mean, I know this is my life, but in another life I'm _dead_. I'm dead, and I was also captain of the _Enterprise_, and I was also close to you, and I can't help but…" he trailed off, shrugging a little.

There was the faintest downturn to the corners of Spock's mouth.

He took a breath. "It's too much to be coincidence, and it's not enough to be destiny. Not after Nero. I don't really care – I _shouldn't_ care – but I don't like inevitabilities. They're like no-win scenarios." _I don't believe in them,_ he thought. _But sometimes, they happen anyway._ It didn't suit him to think that he was running a track that had been laid out for him. Like jumping through Starfleet's hoops. Funny how both things seemed to touch the really important stuff in his life.

"Perhaps the similarities which disconcert you can be explained simply by the similarities between the individuals involved," Spock supplied carefully. "Two objects with separate goals may still cross paths on their way to them, particularly if the objects are basically alike. Even with the changes to our universe, my childhood was essentially the same as my counterpart's. And though you never knew your father, you were still raised by your mother. Parallels are inevitable, even without a sense of destiny."

Jim considered that. "So… you're saying it _is_ coincidence?" he asked.

Spock regarded him in thoughtful silence for a moment. "I am not on this ship because it is my destiny to be here. I am on this ship because it is my desire to be here." His confession, the fervent way he said _desire_, shocked Jim. "The same can be said of my relationship with you. If we share a path with our alternate selves, then it is likely because we also share inclinations with them. I do not believe you are drawn to inevitabilities, Jim, and I confess I am surprised that you are disturbed by such thoughts."

The knot of frustration in his chest actually began to lessen. "Yeah," he said. "I don't know, I think it just struck me all at once for some reason." He couldn't help but wonder about it, with things progressing the way that they were. Couldn't help but wonder if the other Spock had ever had a burn scar that faded away – probably not, but then again, these weird little things kept happening. A temporal crisis situation had brought the _exact same_ command crew together for the _Enterprise_ years early, for example. The same people, but different people.

More than coincidence and less than destiny. The universe was strange. He didn't want to hang on to thoughts like that, and it was frustrating that they were bothering him now.

"It's annoying," he concluded.

"There is a negative quality to the experience," Spock agreed. "I find that I almost… envy my alternate self at times. He had many more years with our homeworld, and our mother. Regardless of the illogic behind such a sentiment, it would seem that our universe received the less appreciable arrangement of events."

"We got the short end of the stick."

"Essentially," Spock agreed.

The majority of his anxieties uncoiled from Jim at last, unable to stay strong in the face of what amounted to _Spock_ joining him in _bitching_. He tipped himself forward, lowering his hands onto his first officer's shoulders and pressing their foreheads together, and enjoying the pleasant sensation of contact.

"Well, on the bright side, we got to meet a few years early. Hey! There's another argument!" he realized, staring into a pair of intrigued, dark eyes that shone in the candlelight. "We should take advantage of the benefits of being all young and hot and ready to go."

Spock shifted, and pulled them away slightly, although he hands lingered on Jim's wrists for a moment. "I doubt, either way, that our courtship will draw out for long enough that our youthful vivacity should be given the opportunity to wane," he replied.

"But it's a still a finite amount of time, Spock, and every second we spend _not_ having wild sex is a second we won't get back," Jim pointed out reasonably.

Spock's eyes were laughing as he took two fingers in the 'kiss' gesture. But rather than extend them, he pressed them to Jim's temple, and then ran them down his cheek and to his jaw. A new gesture. Jim felt the same familiar, pleasant buzz at it, only a little more heightened now. "In that case, I shall give the matter due consideration. I do not imagine it would take me more than a year or so to deliberate on such a complex issue."

Jim felt a brief moment of horror.

"A _year?_" he asked, before he noticed that Spock's eyes were still laughing, and his fingers still lingering on his jaw. "…You are _evil_."

"I harbor no malicious intent," his first officer declared with perfect sincerity. "Theoretically, you should be pleased. I have conceded the possibility that you may have made a valid point in your argument."

"_Evil_," Jim insisted. "Don't think I don't know – you like to mess with my head."

Spock raised an eyebrow at him. "I believe there is a human saying regarding statements like that, involving a pot and a kettle. Dr. McCoy said it once. A most bizarre and curious turn of phrase."

Was it weird that sentences like those ones made complete and utter sense to him now?

"I guess we're well-matched again, in that case," Jim concluded. Then he tried – and failed – to stifle a yawn. It wasn't his fault, really. He'd been a busy captain the past few days, and the combination of heat and scents in the room was all conspiring to make him unduly tired. Now that he was no longer a pent-up ball of sudden and inexplicable negativity, his body had decided that it was night, and if he wasn't going to be getting any action, then sleeping was the next order of business.

"You are fatigued," Spock noted. "You should return to your quarters."

Jim sighed, and gave him something of a grin. "Guess so," he agreed. Then he reached over, inspired, and pressed two fingers to Spock's temple, before sloping them down to his jaw. Just as had been done to him. Spock stilled, and for an instant he seemed to soften – around his eyes, in the lines of his shoulders and the draw of his mouth. The moment passed, but Jim savored the unexpected bit of openness.

"Night," he said.

Spock inclined his head, but did little else as he drew himself up off the floor, and exited the quarters. The chill of the corridor was somewhat welcome against his heated flesh as he moved to his own rooms, passing several crewmembers along the way. A few curious, pointedly speculative glances were directed at him, and he gave an internal snort. _Update – captain exits first officer's rooms looking all sweaty and satisfied._ It was probably some kind of universal payback for a bug he'd stepped on as a kid or something that he got all of the speculation and none of the benefits of, you know, actually doing the stuff speculated about.

As he re-entered his quarters and promptly stripped, he tried to think about what the best way to profess his intention to marry Spock would be. He supposed it would count as proposing.

… _Shit_, was he really agonizing over what the best way to _propose_ was?

He was. Well, damn.

At least that gave him a few places to start. There were the old classics – fancy restaurants, huge declarations, rings, grandiose romantic gestures. None of them would fit. For one thing, he wasn't wearing a ring. He didn't like jewelry, it would get in the way, and as far as he could tell, Vulcans didn't bother with them. So it would be all on his end if that sort of thing happened, and he was vetoing it. The restaurant thing might work, except that they were on a starship, so it would actually have to be the mess-hall. Which would probably be a bad idea, all things considered. Huge declarations – particularly of the public kind – probably weren't necessary. At least _some_ kind of explanation would be called for, but he'd cross that bridge when he came to it. Grandiose romantic gestures would be right out of the question. At best he'd just confuse the hell out of Spock. At worst it would be a humiliating disaster of epic proportions.

Nope, none of that shit would work. Maybe he could just wait for Spock to figure out his answer on his own, and let him deal with this part. Then again, he had a feeling if he did that, he'd be in for a _long_ wait. He might be anyway, because there was every chance that he'd be all 'I want to do this thing' and Spock would just reply with 'I am not yet convinced'. Which was better than 'no', but still one of the less desirable answers.

How did Vulcans propose? He remembered his conversation with Spock about the whole 'courting' thing, and translate that to a marriage proposal instead.

'_I believe it would be mutually beneficial for us to share the rest of our lives together'._

…That should _not_ give him all warm inside, dammit. He shook his head at himself, crawling onto his bed and, for good measure, beating up his pillow a little. As he lay there, he mentally translated his supposed Spock-speak.

'_Marry me'._

Probably the way to go. Now he just needed to get to the point where he could actually ask.

That was one of those decisions, he concluded, that it would probably be inappropriate to let his southern brain make. Sweeping romantic gestures might not get him anywhere with Spock, but just popping the question over breakfast or something probably wouldn't do, either.

When he finally drifted off to sleep, he had the strangest dream involving a white-frosted cake locked inside a giant puzzle box.

He woke up feeling vaguely hungry and a little cold, since he'd fallen asleep on top of his sheets.

A hot shower saw to one matter, and when he exited his quarters to find Spock more or less waiting for him, a trip to the mess hall solved the other. He would have been in a good mood, if he hadn't been fairly certain that Bones was going to jab very unpleasant things into his neck in the near future.

"Make sure they give me a gold-plated tombstone, Spock," he intoned as they made their way to the medical bay.

Spock raised an eyebrow at him. "Would that not be excessively gaudy?" he asked.

"No," Jim replied. "I happen to like gold. It's fitting," he declared, and threw his first officer a wink. The playful nerves, however, soon degenerated into pure nerves when they finally crossed the threshold into Bones' domain. Scant moments later, Jim found an accusing finger thrust in his face.

"You're a dead man, Jim," Bones informed him. "What the hell did you think you were trying to pull, sedating your own goddamn CMO during a _crisis?_ D'you have any idea how many patients could have _died_ because you put me out of commission? My god, man, you can't just run around _my_ sickbay injecting _me_ with my _own_ hyposprays because you think I need a **goddamn nap**!"

Jim did his absolute level best to look as earnest as he could at Bones. "It was for your own good," he said. "And you do it to me all the time!"

"I don't go on the damn bridge and sedate you!"

Spock raised an eyebrow. Jim was a little disbelieving, too, and Bones huffed.

"Alright, fine, _once_. But you learned your lesson about skipping physicals, didn't you?"

He was just glad it had been a late shift, so the whole crew hadn't been able to witness _that_ particular event in his early captaincy. Or, well, earl_ier_ captaincy.

"Okay, Bones, I won't do it again," he agreed, raising his hands in a placating gesture.

"Damn right you won't," Bones grumbled. "What the hell made you come down here, anyway? You didn't seem to _keen_ to chat with me last night."

This was the hard part. Mostly because this was the part where he gave his angry friend an excuse to start jabbing at him.

"There'll be a shipwide announcement once I get to the bridge," Jim said. "They're allowing for shore leave on the colony, so anyone going will need, you know, that not-die-on-a-really-hot-planet stuff."

Bones scowled at him, and then proceeded to swear up a storm about the added workload that gave him, and how Jim really was an ass, and Spock too, just for good measure (also, probably by his association to both colony and captain) and then disappeared into his office for a while. When he re-emerged, there was a speculative gleam in his eye.

"You want to go, don't you?" he asked Jim.

Like a condemned man, Jim nodded.

A rough hand seized his collar with an eager fury, and several minutes later he was exiting sickbay with a neck that felt like an elephant had stepped on it, and a potentially permanent fear of hyposprays.

---

**Author's Note:** Whew! Well, I'm back. We're off to a slow start to this arc, but hopefully the break did me good and not bad. I don't think we're quite back to daily updates yet, I'm not going to push for them because if I do I'll probably crash, but we're back to me writing 'Home' at least. Thanks to everyone for all of the support! You guys are the most awesome readers ever! I love this story, and I'm glad other people love it, too.


	30. Chapter 30

Vulcan II was hot, and dry, and largely unpleasant by most human standards of living, which was entirely what Jim had expected. The sun baked down across a broad expanse of red-brown earth, blazing from an orange-tinted sky and framing the distant mountains with a kind of stark, bright beauty as it began to set. There wasn't a patch of green or blue in sight – although, as Jim understood it, most Vulcan plants were actually red in colour.

It was things like that which made him wonder if the universe spent a lot of time in general giggling behind its hand.

Regardless, the first thing he noticed when he stepped out of the shuttle and onto the landing pad wasn't the strange, desert beauty which surrounded the colony, or even the colony itself.

"Holy _fuck_ it's hot!" he couldn't help blurting as he inhaled the scorching, thin air, and felt the drugs which Bones had given him attempt to compensate for the alien atmosphere. He staggered for a moment when the full blast of it hit him, and felt a steadying hand close around his arm as Spock came up at his side.

"It is fortunate that we did not arrive at midday," his first officer calmly noted, with just the faintest hint of 'I told you so'. Unlike Jim, who was still trying to reconcile himself to the idea of breathing _fire_, Spock looked perfectly content in these surroundings. For a moment, he seemed utterly relaxed, at ease with himself and the state of the universe. Then he straightened, and stiffened, his features adopting a cool neutrality which Jim associated with his best levels of suppression.

Jim wondered if something had set him off – usually he only saw Spock shut down like that when he was being provoked or riled. But there didn't seem to be any cause for it. Nothing was around them except for the shuttle and the landing pad. He blinked, and, getting his bearings, gave his first officer a questioning look. "You alright?" he asked.

"Of course, Captain," Spock replied, in a tone of voice which was usually reserved for tactical briefings.

"…Okay," he said, giving him a skeptical look. "If you're sure."

Spock's eyes darted briefly in his direction, and eased just the tiniest bit. "I have become somewhat more… lax in my requirements for self control in human company. Vulcans will have higher standards," he explained.

Jim processed this information as his first officer resumed his rather distinctive neutrality, and after a minute, grinned and shook his head a little. "What, like when you're on the _Enterprise_ you wear your pajamas to work?" he asked.

"Although peculiar, the metaphor is apt," Spock woodenly agreed. Then he inclined his head slightly towards the overhang of the nearest building entrance. "Shall we proceed?"

Well, uncommonly reserved or not, he was still Spock, and Jim was still curious. With a nod he braced himself to leave the shade provided by their shuttle – it had been safer than using the transporter, all issues with the ship considered – and walked in step with him. The ground beneath his boots was hot and covered in a fine dusting of sand. A blast of warm wind trailed low over the surface of it, kicking up grains here and there and making his uniform pants cling to his legs. He was grateful when they got to the building. It looked like some sort of public station, probably expressly built for receiving the colony's off-world visitors.

There was a welcome wagon of sorts. It gave Jim pause.

He really should have considered the fact that Spock's father would be here.

Sarek was adorned in a simple, grey and brown outfit, his expression the typical mask of Vulcan neutrality, his hands steepled lightly together. He looked perfectly suited to the dull beige and sand colors of the neutral walls around him. Jim had never done the whole 'meet-my-parents' thing with someone he was seeing before. Then again, about ninety-percent of what he did with Spock were things he'd never done with anyone else, so he probably shouldn't have been surprised. He just wasn't expecting to get slammed with seeing Sarek again straight off the bat. After all, the last time they'd met Jim had essentially provoked his son by bringing up his dead wife shortly after his planet exploded.

And now he'd slept with that same son, and routinely attempted to promote a repeat of that experience.

Awkward.

Spock, if it was even possible, actually seemed to tense up even _more_ beside him. Apparently he wasn't expecting Suddenly Sarek either.

"…Father," he greeted, in a tone of voice with about as much character as cardboard.

"Spock," Sarek replied, equally inanimate about the whole thing.

Jim shifted, and wondered if it was physically possible for tension to manifest itself in a visible cloud. If so, it would probably form between the two Vulcans right about then. He cleared his throat, and shifted some more. They'd stopped more or less just inside the open doorway, and the heat was still getting to him. Of course, with the colony set to Vulcan standards that would probably be true just about any place they went. But it didn't help that, where he was standing, he felt a bit like an ant with a magnifying glass aimed at its back. Spock was doing his best statue impression beside him.

He decided to take a little initiative, and after a moment moved further into the room and towards Sarek. The ambassador shifted his gaze towards him, and Jim – not exactly versed in appropriate Vulcan greetings, and pretty sure that pilfering their own hand-gesture would be rude – gave him an awkward kind of wave.

"Ambassador Sarek," he greeted.

"Captain Kirk," Sarek replied. "Welcome to Vulcan II. We are appreciative of the recent aid which the _Enterprise_ has been able to provide us."

It was all very stiff and formal, and Jim felt like he was nine years old and in his principal's office. Except that he couldn't afford to just be a snotty little shit about it, because it might actually be important that Sarek didn't hate his guts. He didn't know much about Spock's relationship with his father. It hadn't really come up before.

"Uh, well, anytime," Jim replied, rubbing one hand against the side of his leg.

There was a prolonged moment of silence.

This would be a lot easier if he could just shake the guy's hand or something. Of course, he knew enough now to understand why that would be a very bad idea, and his interactions with Spock had seen to it that he actually felt a little queasy at the prospect himself. So it would probably help the most if Spock would actually speak or do something other than just stand there, looking very Vulcan about the whole thing.

It didn't seem like this was going to happen any time soon, though. Jim shifted even more, and then decided to hell with it – he wasn't used to running around on eggshells, and _Sarek_ wasn't more than he could handle. The guy had married a human woman. Clearly, he was pretty damn flexible by Vulcan standards, at least on some level, because so far as Jim knew they didn't do that kind of thing very often.

"Well, you know, you guys look like you've done a great job. I hope the new equipment helps. And the plant projects – Spock was working on some of those while we were docked at Earth. If there's anything else the _Enterprise_ can lend a hand with, just let me know, and we'll do whatever we can," he offered, trying to inject more sincerity and less nervousness into his tone.

Sarek inclined his head. It was a stiffer, subtler gesture than the one which Spock used, but still kind of familiar. "I will keep your offer in mind, captain," he said. "You are free to explore the colony. If our agricultural and botanical projects are of interest to you, the scientific facility dedicated to such studies is located in the southwestern wing of the main structure, which you will reach if you exit through the corridor behind me."

Jim resisted the urge to clarify that he didn't actually give a shit about plants. The conversation was uncomfortable enough already. _And he doesn't even know what I'm doing with Spock,_ he thought, and wondered if it would actually be possible to layer even _more_ awkwardness into their interactions.

"Spock. I would speak with you," Sarek said, and it seemed like he was dismissing Jim to go wander around like a good little tourist while he chatted with his son.

Jim shot Spock a questioning glance. He wouldn't leave unless he wanted him to.

Spock looked at his father for a moment, and then met his gaze. He clasped his hands behind his back, and raised his chin slightly. "Please proceed without me for the time being, Captain," he said, and briefly, Jim wondered if Sarek would even actually _learn_ that he was courting his son. He didn't know why it occurred to him so suddenly that Spock might just never volunteer the information.

He found the idea wasn't actually more or less uncomfortable either way.

"Alright, Spock," he agreed, shooting one last glance between the two. "Come find me when you're through?"

"Of course," Spock replied, and even though he felt bad about abandoning his first officer to what was clearly a somewhat tense parental encounter, he was also a little relieved to oblige him, and exited out of the corridor behind Sarek.

There was silence behind him, and he could only assume they planned on continuing the staring contest for a while. He was tempted to eavesdrop, but he knew he'd get caught. They could probably hear his breathing a mile off – it was on the heavy side, but in this heat, there wasn't much he could do about that.

The building was quiet as he made his way down the corridor, and considered where to go. Sarek's suggestion wasn't exactly appealing. Since he'd lost one Spock, it would make sense to go and find the other, especially given the opportunity to avoid his Spock's whole 'I don't particularly like me' issues for a while and just enjoy the old man's company. But the computer systems looked to be in Vulcan, if the terminal he passed was any indication, so he wasn't sure on how to find him. He probably should have worked that out before they left.

On the other hand, their arrival wasn't exactly a secret, so the elder Spock might very well just come and find him on his own.

The corridor he was in had a few doorways, but they'd been sealed off. This wasn't really very surprising to Jim. Vulcans, he had concluded, were secretive and private, but about stuff that was actually pretty commonplace to humans. A Vulcan with a Dark Secret would take ages to crack and finally let on about what was up with them, and the answer would be… 'I'm angry'. Or 'I'm sad' or 'I'm worried' or even 'I'm turned on'. At least, that was the case with Spock. So he strongly suspected that the sealed rooms had things like _chairs_ in them, and they'd been sealed off because his crew might get their fingerprints everywhere. Or, you know, sit in them.

Everything around him was done up in neutral colours and archways. It made him think of Starfleet's odd love of beige and grey, and he suspected that it may, in fact, have been Vulcan influenced. But there were also a few geometrically patterned tapestries hanging here and there, woven squares and triangles possessing an odd kind of beauty and complexity. Doubtless there was a perfectly 'logical' reason to have them. Jim suspected it was 'not even a Vulcan can look at endless blank walls every day without going a tiny bit insane'.

The building wasn't very large, though, and he let himself wander until he came to an open archway that led itself out to short flight of wide, rounded outdoor steps, and an open street into the rest of the colony. He paused for a minute to take it in, lingering in the shade of the building. All of the structures seemed largely inter-connected, none of them more than two stories high except a far structure which was framed by a low, distant mountain range. There was an oddly communal feel to the interlocked buildings around him, a kind of closeness which seemed unnecessary with the sprawling desert around them, as if the remaining Vulcans had huddled unconsciously together. Broad-leafed red plants and short, round trees dotted the corners of the nearest structures and ran parallel to the road, which had some transferred dust atop it, but was otherwise flat and smooth and clearly well-maintained. A peaceful quiet was settled over everything, along with a soft, orange glow.

Jim's inner explorer kicked in. He descended the steps, his boots tapping softly over the surface, and peered curiously around, looking for signs and ways to identify public buildings from private ones. The exteriors around him all seemed neat and orderly and utterly inscrutable.

Fitting.

After a bit of wandering, though, the soft sound of running water reached his ears, and he paused. Surprised. A fountain?

He figured he might as well follow it and see.

His feet carried him down along the straight, slightly narrow paths, and although he didn't pass anyone on the way, eventually the gentle murmur of voices mingled with the familiar flow of water, and his curiosity grew. He got turned around once, but eventually found a little side road between two buildings which ended in an archway, and then opened up to a small, quiet area that would be best described as a garden. Jim drew up to it, and paused. There _was_ a fountain there. It was nestled in the middle of the action, square and grey-stoned, and oddly enough _steaming_ as it flowed, which made him that that it wasn't necessarily water running through it. Or not just water, anyway. But that wasn't really what caught the bulk of his attention.

The elder Spock was moving with several children, his hands gently lowering a plant into the ground, his voice steady and placid in its tones as he instructed the children's solemn motions and they followed suit. There were about six of them all told, none of them looking much older than ten. All around them were little plots for the plants, and the plants themselves placed on simple trays, looking distinctly sorry and worn out. Plants that were having trouble, Jim thought. Small hands lifted them with care and sorted out odd tangles in their leaves and roots, pulling off clearly dried or dead parts and being much more gentle than human children probably would. A soft glow lit the whole scene, and as Jim looked, he was struck with a dual sense of the alien and the familiar – because Spock was familiar, but the plants, the fading sunlight, the little cluster of unusually quiet and subtly _other_ qualities to the children all reminded him sharply that Vulcans were not humans.

But of course, as with their appearance, they weren't completely different, either. He remembered when he and Spock had painted the fence with his mother. Seeing them at work in these quiet, domestic tasks, Jim thought he could understand why the idea had appealed to his first officer. This wasn't logic at play here. This was ritual, some kind of tradition – some attempt to connect with hands and touch and soil to their new home, to save sickly little plants and keep them from dying. There was a kind of sorrowful desperation in that, he thought. Hopeful, but still… sad.

He watched them quietly for a long time, folding his arms and leaning against the interior of the archway, not really wanting to interrupt. It wasn't often that he felt like an alien himself. He remembered, not for the first time, the sight of that device dropping past him and heading for Vulcan's core. That was always going to be something which haunted him now and again. He had been _right there_.

It was awhile before Spock caught sight of him. His lined face lifted, and eyes widened marginally in surprise and recognition, and then softened in what he was starting to think was equal parts fondness and nostalgia as he dusted his hands off, straightened, and walked towards him.

"Jim," he said, drawing close. "I was not aware that you had arrived already."

_Busy gardening,_ Jim thought, and smiled. "The shuttle landed just a while ago. My Spock's talking to Sarek," he explained, moving away from the wall and straightening the bottom of his shirt. The old man's gaze followed the gesture for a moment, softening further.

Jim blinked, and glanced down at himself, noticing the change in his expression. "What?" he asked, and then guessed the answer. "My other self had a thing about tugging at his clothes?"

The old man's lips quirked. "You do not share many mannerisms with him, but yes, that is one," he replied. More ghosts… but for whatever reason, it didn't bother him so much just then to think that this Spock might be comparing him to someone else.

"Ambassador Selek," one of the children said, her voice very solemn but her expression not _quite_ managing to suppress her frustration. "This plant is dysfunctional. The roots will not be untangled."

Spock turned towards her, one of his eyebrows arching up in clear skepticism. "The plant is dysfunctional?" he asked, moving back over to where she was. After a moment, Jim followed. He was earning many curious stares, and found himself glancing back at the quiet, dark little eyes that assessed him. "An odd choice of phrasing. It is more likely that the plant is proving challenging," the old man mused, and then glanced back towards him. "Would care to add your assessment to the situation, Captain?"

Jim's eyes widened a bit, because he'd never heard _this_ Spock call him 'Captain' like that before, all playfully business about it. Then he looked at the plant, with its wide red fronds and its tangled pink roots. "I don't know a lot about gardening," he admitted.

"I see," said Spock. "If that is the case, then we will have to remedy such a deficiency. A Starfleet captain must be as versed in as wide a variety of fields as he can afford to be. It helps give him perspective." He raised his hand, and gestured Jim closer, before leaning down and taking the plant from the girl, whose expression of frustration had cleared somewhat. Carefully, Spock began to untangle the roots, moving with gentle, slow motions to avoid damaging them as he wound them away from one another and opened up the bottom of the plant. He spoke as he did, in those same even and infinitely patient tones. Describing his actions. Then he returned the plant to the girl, and with obvious care, she lowered it into the hole intended for it, and began to pat the soil in around it.

"Do not forget, we are explaining to the captain," Spock reminded her. She looked up, and glanced between them, and then began to quietly explain what she was doing to Jim.

It was a silly and kind of cute and interesting at the same time, although he wondered what the old man was up to. Soon enough he found himself roped into helping with the plants, as Spock led him between the different children, aiding and advising and making them explain things to Jim, and then having Jim lend a hand between them all. It was obvious the young Vulcans were interested in him. He wondered how many of them had seen a human in person before.

"What is the moisture on your skin?" one of them asked him out of the blue as he was helping to pull two small, ruby-red plants apart from each other. The old man had wandered off, and so Jim was left to field this question on his own.

"Sweat," he replied, succeeding at his task and handing the plants to the young boy – probably not more than six or seven – who then solemnly placed them into the plot between them.

"What is sweat?"

Jim paused. He'd seen Spock sweat before… which really wasn't an appropriate train of thought to have around children. But not much, and Spock wasn't entirely Vulcan, so it was possible that most of the species didn't. He considered his answer, and tried to translate it into a more Vulcan way of phrasing. "Its proper name is perspiration. When I'm really hot, my body produces moisture on the surface of my skin to help cool me down," he explained.

The boy tilted his head. "But it is not warm," he noted.

"Not for you," Jim replied, retrieving another plant to untangle. This kid was kind of cute. He had the same dark, straight hair as most Vulcans, and a sharp, serious little face that betrayed none of the curiosity his tone of voice was expressing. "Humans like it much cooler than Vulcans do."

"Oh," the boy replied. "I have not yet reached the stage in my education for xenobiological studies."

Okay, nobody that small had any business saying 'xenobiological'. Jim laughed.

_Every_ pair of eyes turned his way, tasks halting as he was suddenly the object of great interest and scrutiny.

His laughter trailed off a little awkwardly, and he coughed into one of his hands. "Uh," he said. "Sorry."

"Do not apologize, Jim," Spock replied easily. "Humans manage their emotions differently from Vulcans. Rather than suppress them, they release their feelings through gestures and expressions, but do not necessarily allow them to dictate their higher thinking and decision-making processes," he said, and Jim suddenly felt like he was part of impromptu culture lesson.

"Well, not _necessarily_," he added, just to be fair. The children were all examining him again.

"Father says that humans lack the mental discipline to control themselves," one of the other boys chimed in very matter-of-factly.

Jim paused for a minute. Then he just shook his head and rolled his eyes, because really, _Vulcans_. Besides, it was probably bad form to tell the kid that his father could shove it. "We're just different," he said. The boy gave him a long look.

"If by 'different' you mean mentally and physically inferior, then your assessment is correct," he quipped, and Jim blinked, and almost dropped the plant he was holding. Because, really, where the heck had _that_ come from all of a sudden?

The old man broke in. "Nevak," he said evenly, eyebrows up – so at least Jim wasn't the only one surprised. "It is unwise to form such derogatory conclusions based upon poorly informed conjecture."

Nevak's eyes darted between the two of them. "But it is true," he said, folding his arms. "I have begun my xenobiological studies. Humans possess only a third of the physical strength of Vulcans. Their memories are inconsistent and their brains cannot contain high levels of information. They are incapable of true emotional suppression and physical control, and cannot survive in the same temperatures which we do." He gave a slight inclination of his head, as though very satisfied with his own assessments.

Jim frowned. If this kid hadn't been a kid, he probably would have just started Human versus Vulcan, Round Nine-Million. But he _was_ a kid. So really, there was only one way to handle the situation.

"Maybe, but I can do _this_," he said, and then impulsively leaned over to the nearest patch of ground, spread his hands against it, and then flipped himself upwards so that he was doing a handstand, back straight and legs high in the air. His arms strained and the blood rushed to his head, but it was actually worth it to see the kid's eyes widen fractionally.

"A sound counter-argument," the old man said, an undercurrent of amusement to his voice.

A little voice piped up from next to Jim as he carefully lowered himself back down off of his hands. "I do not understand," the boy next to him said. "How is that relevant to the discussion?"

"Humans are difficult to predict, and very adaptable," Spock answered simply. "They have qualities which compensate for their apparent 'inferiorities' elsewhere."

Once again, Jim felt the inquisitive eyes on him as he brushed the dirt from his hair. "I would not have anticipated his behavior," one of the girls conceded thoughtfully.

"That is because it is illogical," Nevak insisted. "There is no purpose to standing on one's hands."

"It gives you a different perspective," Jim countered easily, grinning, and surprised that he wasn't really more offended at all of this. But then again, he already knew that Vulcans were stronger and had better memories and could do all kinds of awesome things. It would have spoken very poorly of his observational skills if he didn't. Maybe it wasn't bothering him because he wasn't really threatened by it. Which wasn't to say that he didn't find it annoying at _all_, but just that he wasn't as bent out of shape as, say, when a human made a derogatory remark about Vulcans.

"There is no point to such perspectives. You are simply too prideful to concede," the boy continued, and Jim thought he was starting to let some of his emotions through. His eyes had narrowed and one of his hands had clenched shut.

Spock lowered a hand onto his narrow shoulder. "Enough," he said sternly. "No sentient life form may claim superiority over another. That is one of the basic principals of Vulcan morality – and human morality as well. Your father would agree." There was a pause, and Jim thought that would be the end of it.

Then Nevak lashed out, shrugging the weathered grasp from his shoulder and kicking up a cloud of red-brown earth. He hurled the plant nearest to him, its leaves cracking at it impacted the rim of the fountain, and made a sound of frustration and annoyance and ran at Jim. He was shocked when he found his arms full of furious Vulcan child, fists bruising him and a small boot lodging against the side of his leg. "It isn't right! I want to go home!" Nevak cried.

_What the hell?_ Jim wondered, not quite sure how he'd promoted this little freak out. But he at least recognized it for what it was. He got an arm around the kid, trying to pin his arms against his sides. His chin was knocked sharply by the top of Nevak's head as he struggled and started making angry, distinctly Vulcan sounds, and Jim swung him upwards, sending his legs kicking into the air as he stood and tried to figure out what to do now.

The other children had gone very still and wide-eyed. He only had to put up with the assault for a few minutes before the old man moved quickly over, and laid a hand on Nevak's forehead.

"Be calm," he said very clearly, in a tone of voice which implied that this was more than a suggestion.

For a minute, there were a few more kicks, and Jim felt the corner of his top shirt rip down from the collar as a small hand gripped it. But then the touch and command seemed to have an effect, and gradually Nevak's struggles eased, and slowed, and then stopped altogether. He slumped forward a little in Jim's arms.

There was a still moment, a little tense still as it wound down from the outburst.

So. That was one hell of a temper tantrum.

Spock carefully took the boy from Jim's grasp and after a few minutes got him standing on his own, expression neutral again and breaths shuddering from his chest, his cheeks wet with tears.

"You okay now?" Jim asked, glancing between the young Vulcan and his old friend.

"He will be well," Spock assured him, his hands on the boy's shoulders. "I shall escort him home. Rest and meditation would perhaps be appropriate at this point," he said. "Children, please keep an eye on the captain until I return. Try and prevent him from damaging his remaining clothing – it should prove sufficiently challenging for you." His tone was lighter, almost joking now, and the next thing Jim knew he'd gone and left him with five solemn little kids and a ripped uniform.

He glanced down at himself, and wondered what that crack was about his clothes.

Well, the uniform shirt was a lost cause, anyway. He took it off, leaving himself in his black undershirt, and then looked around at the eyes watching him. "I don't know what he was talking about," he admitted.

"The implication would be that you have difficulties in remaining fully clothed," one of the girls contributed helpfully, folding her hands in front of her and blinking up at him.

There was a pause as Jim considered this.

"…I don't think he meant it that way," he said, to the children's general confusion and his own reassurance. Weird. He cleared his throat, and wondered what exactly he was supposed to do with a troupe of Vulcan kids. "Maybe we should get back to the plants?"

The littlest, the only remaining boy, moved over to where Nevak had tossed one against the fountain. He lifted it up, and that seemed to be the signal to get back to it, as the other children returned to their plots and the girl who'd spoken started evening out the kicked-up patch of ground. It was almost disconcerting to see them all so quiet and well-behaved, and so small. But at the same time, they were still obviously children, and just miniature adults.

"I do not think it can be repaired," the boy noted somberly, turning a little and extending the damaged plant towards Jim. The leaves had bent and several of the roots had broken off. He didn't know a whole lot about plants, and it wasn't like the kid seemed upset or on the verge of it or anything.

But.

He reached out and carefully took it from him, letting out a sigh. "It's worth a shot," he reasoned, and then moved over to the space which had been intended for it, crouched down, and tried to straighten it out a little while folding the dirt around its roots. It looked pretty beaten up and miserable.

On the other hand, it wasn't completely destroyed, either. He pulled a few of the broken leaves off of it and then sat back.

"It will be unlikely to survive," the kid noted bluntly.

"Yeah, probably not," Jim agreed.

After a moment, the boy moved over to the tray, and retrieved a few smooth, heavy rocks. Then he came back and lay them on the ground around the stalk of the plant, pressing them firmly down. "Its damage has made it lighter. The rocks will help keep any low winds from uprooting it," he said, and Jim thought that, even though his tone didn't change, he seemed quietly determined. He wondered if all Vulcans had that quality.

"Do you like plants?" he asked, unthinkingly.

The boy straightened. "I do not become emotional over them," he said, with a tone that didn't quite manage to avoid being reproachful. Coming from someone that small and serious, it was kind of funny. Jim resisted the urge to reach over and ruffle his hair in an effort to break up the severity of his expression. He'd always hated that when he was a kid, and he didn't think a Vulcan kid would like it any better. Besides, that was like nine million times more paternal than he ever planned on being in his life.

"Do you like plants, Captain?" the boy asked in an inquisitive sort of fashion, as Jim looked around and realized that the majority of trays were pretty much empty. The other children were still casting him curious glances, seeming to keep one eye on him.

Jim shrugged. "Not really," he answered honestly.

"Then you dislike them?" the boy pressed, retrieving a cloth and methodically batting the dirt off of himself.

"No," Jim said. "I don't really care much either way, I guess."

One of the girls nearby looked up from her task. She was a little older, about Nevak's age range, with a pronounced slant to her brows. "Do humans not express emotional preference to everything?" she asked. The other children all gazed at him expectantly.

Again, Jim felt kind of like a really interesting subject on display at some school function. Or a lab specimen being examined by a bunch of mini-scientists. "You mean, you think I either like something or a don't like it?" he asked, just to be sure he was getting this.

"Humans possess emotional susceptibility," another girl chimed in, moving to stand next to the other one. "Emotions do not allow for neutral viewpoints. That is why they cloud decision-making skills."

Jim decided that it was too hot for philosophical discussions on emotionalism with a cluster of Vulcan kids.

"I don't have to feel one way or the other about everything in existence," he replied, with a shrug, and wondered how far the old man would have to go to take Nevak home. And then get back. Because babysitting really wasn't part of his skill set. If these had been human kids, he would have been toast by now.

Something tickling along the side of his hand caught his attention. Glancing down, he noticed a small, spindly-legged insect making its way across his skin. It was narrow-bodied, with pointed legs and a dusty torso. He brushed it off of himself, sending it tumbling down to the nearby soil.

"That is one of the colony's native insects," the boy near him said, and then to Jim's surprised, extended a foot and promptly crushed it.

It was all very matter-of-fact and straight forward.

He couldn't say _exactly_ why it freaked him out a little bit, but it kind of did.

"Why'd you do that?" he asked, as the boy rubbed his shoe to clear it of the insect's mauled remains. As far as Jim knew, Vulcans were generally supposed to respect other life-forms. Condescend like _hell_, but respect them all the same.

The boy looked up at him. "They are detrimental to the plants," he replied evenly, not the least bit phased by his rampant bug murdering.

"…Okay. Kind of harsh, but okay." Well, it wasn't like he'd expect a lot of restraint from a human gardener towards pests. But still. Creepy.

"Their legs secrete an unpleasant chemical," one of the girls said, pointing towards hand. "You will likely experience skin irritation."

"Perhaps not," the sharp-browed girl countered. "Human skin may not be as susceptible as Vulcan."

The boy turned to him. "Tell us if you begin to itch," he instructed solemnly.

"We will consider it an evaluation," the girl added, and Jim wasn't sure why, but he got the distinct impression that they were relaxing around him now. More or less. Or maybe it was just that there weren't any plants to focus on planting.

Jim cleared his throat and shifted a little uncomfortably. "Wouldn't it be smarter if I washed my hand off instead?" he suggested.

One of the girls gave him a mildly reproachful look. "It is for science," she informed him. "We have a unique opportunity for comparison."

"What if his reaction is more pronounced?" a previously quiet girl suggested. "The secretions could prove deadly to humans."

"Interesting. I had not considered that," the other girl conceded.

He snorted. "I'm not going to die because a bug walked on me," he informed them, kind of amused. "Bones – uh, Dr. McCoy, my chief medical officer – would have warned me if there was anything lethal like that around here."

Only replace 'warned me' with 'expressly forbidden me to head down'.

At this comment he earned himself a bunch of inquisitive stares again, and the next thing he knew he was trying to answer interested questions about Federation away-team protocols and doing a bad job of explaining sickbay's procedures, and attempting to describe Bones without the use of swear-words to a cluster of children who practiced emotional suppression.

Needless to say, he was pretty sure the kids were convinced after about ten minutes of this that Starfleet was extremely weird, and his CMO was a madman. Or at least, he figured that's what they meant when one of them said: "How did someone with a behavioral dysfunction proceed through medical school and military rank?" He suspected that 'dysfunction' was that particular kid's word of the week, because she kept dropping it left and right.

"Bones isn't crazy," he said. "He's just… colorful." Although it might have been easier to portray him as a hypo-wielding madman who'd somehow blackmailed his way to his job. His neck was definitely in agreement with that idea.

The boy blinked at him. "Humans are capable of changing the pigment of their skin?" he asked.

"They are not," one of the girls informed him. "He is lying."

Jim stiffened. "I'm not lying," he said. "That's a figure of speech. It means he…" Swears a lot? "…he has a dynamic personality."

Blank looks all around.

His hand started to itch. It was almost a relief to have an excuse to change topics. Not so much, though, when a few minutes later his skin started to redden and break out in tiny little bumps.

_Wonderful_.

"Interesting," one of the girls said.

He decided that there was very little difference, really, between Vulcan children and human. Sure, the Vulcan kids were generally quieter and used bigger words, but they still had that poke-it-with-a-stick-and-see-if-it-moves kind of mentality.

"Is it painful?" the boy asked him.

"It's not a picnic," Jim replied as the itchy fire trailed along his skin, and he frowned. "Okay, guys, as fun as this is I'd kind of like to wash it off or something now," he said. The soft _tap_ of footsteps drew everyone's attention just then, however, and it was _definitely_ a relief to have the old man walk back through the archway. He didn't even bat an eyelash at the sight of Jim surrounded by the kids, who had, at some point, more or less clustered around him. He _did_ seem to notice the odd way he was holding his hand after a moment, though, and his expression somehow turned from placid to a little more stern as he looked at the children.

"I see the captain has encountered one of the local insects," he noted, and there were several averted gazes.

"We have observed that their secretions have a pronounced detrimental effect on human skin," the boy said tentatively.

Spock curved an eyebrow at him.

"…Perhaps it was unwise to experiment?"

"Indeed," the old man said. "The ethics of such conduct are distinctly questionable. I suppose the only redeeming aspect is that he has, at least, retained his second shirt for the duration of my absence."

Jim blinked. "I wasn't going to strip," he said, wondering why the older Spock kept implying these things about him. It was a little odd. Well, sure, it was hot and everything, but _come on_. Some credit, please? Nakedness only went well with _one_ Vulcan he knew.

Speaking of, he wondered if his Spock had finished talking with Sarek yet.

"I did not mean to imply you would, Jim," the old man said, and he was back to being his normal, subtly friendly self. "Forgive me, I occasionally neglect to recall that there may be patterns which have not yet been set into motion for you. Or may never be set into motion at all."

He suspected that there was an in-joke going on that his other self would have gotten. It was awkward, and made doubly awkward by the fact that he'd somewhat saddened the old man, albeit unintentionally.

"To what do you refer, Ambassador Selek?" one of the girls asked.

Spock gazed towards her. "It is not relevant at the moment, child," he said. "But the time is. I shall escort the rest of you home." Then he looked back at Jim. "If you would accompany us, Captain, we can see to your injury as well."

Jim wouldn't have exactly called it an 'injury', but he shrugged and went with it. It was still pretty damn itchy, after all, and he didn't really know where else to go, unless it was back to the shuttle area to look for his Spock – who may or may not still be there. And really, that wouldn't do anything for his hand.

The children were quiet again as Spock led them out of the little garden area, the light dimming and a few lamps coming on here and there outside of various doorways and arches. It seemed as if, with every home they passed and little Vulcan they dropped off, the temperature became cooler, too, and Jim felt more at ease. It was still hot, but not _insanely_ hot.

Eventually the last of the children had been seen into an arched doorway, safely delivered to a solemn face, and Jim found himself being led to a little structure which branched slightly away from the main curve of buildings. A companionable silence had settled between himself and the old man, and Jim thought about all of the things he could fill it with, but didn't seem very inclined to. None of it seemed appropriate.

"So. Gardening, huh?" he finally decided on at length, and they drew level with the little building, which had quite a few plants around it.

Spock inclined his head. "Most will deny it, but it is important that the colonists develop an emotional tie to this world if the settlement here is to be successful," he explained. "It is important to form a connection. Manual tasks such as building and gardening are an appropriate means of achieving this."

On that note, they went inside. The interior of the building was… well, it was kind of like walking into his Spock's quarters, actually. There were high, oval windows, and everything was neatly laid out and methodically organized. But there was also a certain… _lack_. Looking around, Jim didn't see much that wouldn't have fit out of a standard pre-packaged set of new colony equipment. There was bland grey furniture, and a little table, and a replicator unit off to one side, and even a few token tapestries hanging on the walls that seemed little boring for Spock's taste. Not that he was exactly _riveting_ in his decorative decisions, but they were too light and airy for him. So either that was another discrepancy, or the place wasn't really lived in that much.

It occurred to Jim that the old man had arrived in their timeline with absolutely nothing from his old life.

He lingered just inside for a minute, looking around, and Spock went off towards one of the narrow doorways that branched out from the main room. He reappeared a short while later, caring a small first aid pack. This he lowered onto the table, and retrieved a small dermal treatment unit from. Jim gratefully accepted it and ran it carefully over his injury, feeling the itch immediately relieved.

The old man watched him for a moment.

He thought about things. He'd been doing a lot of that lately. After a while, he quietly handed the treatment tool back, and swallowed a little. His hand felt better.

"Hey, old man," he said, deciding there was no harm in asking. "Hypothetically speaking, suppose you were a lot younger and more aggressive and emotionally unstable and working on a starship with a really handsome captain."

Spock re-packed the medical kit, and the corners of his mouth twitched. "I believe I shall be able to envision your scenario," he replied easily.

"Right," Jim took in a breath. "Now, suppose that said really handsome captain – hypothetically – wanted to…"

He could do this. He could totally say it out loud.

"…propose." Hell yes! "What kind of proposal would be the kind that this younger you would accept?"

Was it weird that he was more embarrassed to ask about this than the sex thing? Probably not. Sex was _normal_ for him. Life-long commitments? Not so much.

The old man was giving him a look which could best be described as very, very surprised. "What?" he said, and he sounded almost incredulous.

Jim decided that wasn't a good sign.

---

**Author's Note:** _Finally_. My gods, this took forever! I'm really sorry about that. There's a lot planned out for this arc and I couldn't decide how to organize a big chunk of it, to be honest, but I think we're swinging now. Thanks for everyone's patience and support! And artwork! There's loads of stuff up on my profile, so check it out!

Also, if anyone wants to participate in a fan effort to try and get more K/S into the mainstream, check out the 'Home' forum. It's linked on my profile.

Hopefully chapter thirty-one won't take as long to get out!


	31. Chapter 31

"Jim," the old man said. Then he paused, almost as if words were temporarily eluding him. After a beat, he tried again. "Jim…"

It quickly became apparent that this just wasn't going to work out for him. Jim shifted uncomfortably, and folded his hands behind his back. "What's so weird?" he asked. "You said you and, you know, the other me had sex. And Spock – the other Spock – told me about Vulcans and sex, so I'm guessing at some point this _happened…?"_

There was a long, very pregnant pause. Spock's expression had turned unfathomable, which was fairly unique for the older model.

"I think," he said, rather slowly, "that it would be best if you were to recount the events which have led you to this point. In full."

Jim blinked. "...Shouldn't you be able to guess?" he asked, feeling something inside of him start to close off and cringe away. He was regretting bringing it up now. It was starting to feel as though he must have missed something, not seen some vital sign or clue and was now making a fool of himself. He swallowed uncomfortably. But what could he have missed? It was his own Spock who had started their whole courtship, and that was only going to end in one of two ways, and pushing for it to end the _good_ way surely couldn't have been that much of a shock. Even if it was also the kind of crazy way.

The old man looked at him, and after a moment, indicated the more comfortable furniture of the sitting room with a slight tilt of his head. Jim felt strange as he followed him over to the soft, dull-colored chairs and sat. Like he was out of his depth. Which he pretty much was.

"There are many differences between what is occurring now and what has occurred before," Spock reasoned, somber and uncommonly serious as he say and twined his hands together, regarding Jim with unfathomable eyes. He suddenly looked every one of his years, every inch a being with a lot of life behind him. "The James T. Kirk of my own time was married twice, and neither marriage was to myself."

_That_ particular little revelation brought him up short for a moment. He looked at Spock. The old man looked back patiently, apparently watching to see what kind of reaction his words provoked in him.

"But you had sex," he clarified, wanting to make sure he was getting all of this right.

"We did," Spock confirmed. Then he exhaled, and something in his gaze shifted, turning softer again. "I knew my Jim for many years before the… close tie between us was ever physically acknowledged. Do not mistake me. Neither one of us ever forged a bond with others that was capable of surpassing our own. But I would not have considered imposing the restrictions of Vulcan marriage upon him. There were too many times when we were apart, and he was an affectionate, tactile being. To have confined him to myself in such a manner may have been more respectable to the standards of Vulcan society, but it would have been detrimental to him. I could not have asked him to make that sacrifice."

There was a tense, quiet moment as Jim sat, letting those words and their implications sink in as Spock regarded him with a look of understanding.

Only he didn't understand.

"He slept around on you?" Jim asked, feeling some of the dread in his stomach start to burn into anger. He shifted uncomfortably in the chair, frowning more deeply than he consciously realized.

The old man's eyebrows raised slightly. "I would not have confined him the way my father confined my mother. It was an open relationship between us – a human one. It would have been unfair to demand more from him."

He remembered one of the questions he'd wanted to ask, when his own Spock had finally caved in and let him inquire after their sex life. Thinking to ask if his other self had been capable of maintaining a relationship that long. Capable of such commitment.

Apparently not.

"He couldn't do it?" Jim asked, looking down at his hands. It was strange. So strange. Somehow he had troubles imagining being unable to just _be_ with Spock, or wanting to be with someone else. But it was still very early on in things for the two of them. Suddenly he felt like an idiot for ever doubting the inevitable unraveling of this thing between them. And yet, he was also getting angrier and angrier with each passing second, because it had all seemed so _simple_ just a little while ago, and now it seemed like it was getting horribly complex and confusing again.

The old man frowned in his ever-so-slight way. "I do not know," he said, surprising Jim a little. "As I said, I never asked it of him. But he was far more constant than I."

Jim started a bit, eyes widening. "What?" he asked.

_Spock_ had commitment issues?

"Though his extraneous relationships were more numerous, his dedication to our own bond never wavered. Whereas I…" he trailed off a little, and for a moment, looked like he was a million miles away. "I spent many years at odds with my emotions and my humanity. Nothing exemplified these things more thoroughly than our connection. There were times when I attempted to rid myself of it completely. The attachment I felt towards him, the deep-running emotions that such an attachment could bring, and the shame which then cemented my failures as a logical being, all led me to believe that it was something I needed to purge from my nature."

Although the colony was still very warm, even with the sun sitting as little more than streaks on the horizon, the room suddenly felt distinctly colder.

The old man continued. "It was only when I found myself faced with a being that was utterly bereft of such emotions that I appreciated their value to me. Simple feeling… even Vulcans infuse so much more of it into their lives than they know. It is what gives life its meaning. I still hold to Surakian principals, of course, but at that time I was also able to reconcile myself to the knowledge that a complete lack of emotion was not a fate which truly appealed to me."

He seemed to consider his own words for a moment, and then continued. "Regardless, I was in my fourth decade by then. My inconsistencies had taken their toll on Jim over the years. At times I had reached out to him, and at others, rejected the very fundamentals of our relationship. I did not wish to confine him. Neither did I wish to lose him. In my attempts to free myself from the restraints of my own humanity I inevitably wrought havoc with his, and yet he remained, as ever, a constant. His feelings towards me never changed."

Jim let out a breath he didn't realize he'd been holding.

The old man fixed him with his eyes again, and he could tell that he wasn't completely seeing Jim, just then. Or at least not the Jim who was in front of him. "My alternate self has been through many things which I am certain have left him in a far darker place than I ever was at such a young age. He is, as I have seen, considerably more aggressive and possessive than I ever was. It is perhaps understandable. Given all that he has lost, I cannot imagine he would be eager to lose even more. Yet it remains inadvisable for him to place demands upon your nature because of this. If he has brought up the topic of Vulcan propriety then it likely he is withholding physical intercourse in the hopes of eliciting a formal agreement from you beforehand. Correct?"

For a moment, there was only uncomfortable silence.

"…We're courting," Jim confirmed eventually. He was having a little trouble processing all of the information that was being flung his way just then. The old man gave him an inquiring look – questioning, inviting him to elaborate. An exchange of information. Hesitantly, Jim found a few awkward, vague explanations tumbling past his lips. "I – we – uh, we hooked up after we melded."

"Understandable. With his current emotional state and your own sensual inclinations, it would have proven a compelling act once sufficient barriers had been removed between you."

He swallowed a little and shifted again, feeling hot and cold at the same time, and like the dark eyes across from him had cast him in an uncomfortable spotlight. "Yeah. Well, afterwards he told me that Vulcans don't really do… you know, casual hook-ups. So he suggested we court one another."

"While that information is true, it is likely that this was an attempt on his part to encourage further commitment from you. It would have been logical for him to conclude that if your relationship proceeded in a more human fashion, you would eventually grow tired of it, given your romantic history."

Jim blinked. "…No," he said, after a moment, surprising Spock and causing his eyebrows to move slightly upwards. "He was still afraid of sex then. I think that had more to do with it."

He considered that it was probably pretty ballsy to tell someone that they didn't have all of the insight they thought they did into their other self.

After a moment, the old man inclined his head. "Perhaps," he agreed. "I forget that fear would affect him more than it did myself at such an age. But then why persist after it had been assuaged? That was the intended purpose of our conversation on that subject, was it not?"

To this, Jim had no real response. Maybe it was for the reasons the older Spock said, maybe he wanted to make sure that Jim was serious about things. He didn't like the idea of being manipulated. But then again, he just… didn't think that was what was happening. It was like when his Spock had been suspicious of the old man.

Wait.

That was it.

He looked up, frowning as realization hit, and the moisture in his throat fled, leaving him feeling simultaneously relieved and oddly worn down. "You're doing that _thing_," he accused, jabbing a finger through the air at him. "You're doing that thing where you don't trust yourself with me. I can't believe _you_ do that, too!"

Spock blinked at him, his mouth pursing slightly in an expression of perplexity. "Jim?" he asked, clearly not quite following along with the conclusion he'd jumped to.

Jim rose to his feet, folding his arms across his chest and giving the old man a pointed look. "You don't trust him. He doesn't trust you. I'm pretty sure you trust _yourself_, but he doesn't trust _himself_, and now you think that he's manipulating me."

"Is he not?" Spock asked him plainly, giving him a look which implied that Jim was missing the bigger picture for the sake of the smaller one here.

The question provoked an oddly intense level of frustration in him. "Who the fuck knows?" he asked, throwing his hands skyward. "You know it seems like all everyone can tell me these days is that I'm being manipulated. By Starfleet, by you, by _my_ Spock, even by the universe in general. Well that's _bullshit_." He paced keeping his arms folded and trying to work the negative ball of tension out of himself and through the soles of his feet. "I am James T. Fucking Kirk, goddamn it, and I helped to save Earth and blow that bastard Nero out of the fucking water. I'm the youngest captain in Starfleet history. I'm _this_ cocky asshole who doesn't know when to quit, and if you think for five seconds that I'm going to do something that I don't want to do just because someone talked me into it, then you don't _know_ who I am."

Because, really, if he'd been that easy to push around he probably would have enlisted in Starfleet when he was eighteen. And not gotten himself jettisoned onto Delta Vega. And probably a hundred other things he couldn't even thik of right then.

The old man was quiet as Jim calmed down and almost immediately felt a little bad for yelling about it. He was just sick of… of everything that was confusing him, really. Of all the complications his life had suddenly grown, even though he was – well, he was happy with things now, and there was something to be said for that.

But _this_ Spock was the one who supposedly believed in him. So it was a little shattering to realize that, in some ways, he also didn't.

"You don't think I can do it," he said, resigned and almost accusing.

"Your assessment is incorrect," Spock replied, rising to his feet and coming to a halt just in front of him. "You are a brilliant young man, Jim, and more than capable of accomplishing anything you set your mind to, as you have proven many times before. I am fully confident that you would be able to accommodate your Spock. That is not the issue," he assured him. "What concerns me is whether or not you _should_ do something like this."

Jim paused, turning this statement over in his mind. The old man was standing close to him now, the scent of desert soil and the fabric of his clothes coming to him as he inhaled. "Why not?" he asked.

Dark eyes met his steadily, honestly. "You are both young men who have endured a great deal of pain. It would be easy for you to rush headlong into a fate which would later leave you unhappy, or unfulfilled. There should be no ultimatums to your relationship, no vows given too hastily, only to later leave you with regrets. My alternate self has imposed a structure upon something which has the potential to be too vast for it. I believe he was in error to do so. You should not be so confined… particularly should he become as conflicted as I was."

The truth of it struck him again, and he unfolded his arms, wondering if that was regret he was seeing on the old man's face.

"The worst that can happen is that he leaves me," he said. "Like you said you left your version of me."

After a moment, Spock nodded, once.

"And he took you back?"

"He always did," he confirmed.

Jim considered this. Then, after a moment, he shrugged. "Then you _came_ back," he reasoned. "So if my Spock does the same thing, then he'll probably do all of it." Not that there were any guarantees, either way. In fact, he was pretty certain of it now. Their others selves were more than just a little different.

He shouldn't have asked about the proposal. He got it. As nervous as he was, it had been the wrong Spock to bring it up with. This one couldn't speak for the other.

"Jim…"

Once again the old man trailed off, and once again Jim just gave him a hopeless look.

"Listen. The way I see it, I've got a lot of options here," he said. "I can keep going with this courtship thing, which would be kind of pointless unless Spock wants to, because I've already made up my mind. I can back out – except that I _can't_, because I really don't want to. I can go to Spock and tell him everything you've told me, and then deliver him my own ultimatum, that we have some kind of 'open' relationship and just take things how they come. Or, I can propose."

He paused, drawing a deep breath. "To be honest, I just can't see myself wanting to get rid of him, and I'd like to get back to the stuff where we have sex and I've got a decent excuse to hang onto him all night. As long as I can do that I don't really need to sleep with anyone else. So – proposing is a bad option _how?"_

Spock raised an eyebrow at him. "Are you aware of what Vulcan marriage entails? You would be expected to adopt Surakian philosophies. A mental bond would be established between the two of you. Infidelity would be viewed as grounds for dissolving that same bond."

The only one Jim really had a problem with was adopting Surakian philosophies. The mental bond was kind of a mutual source of worry and intrigue, too, but he put that aside for now. "He didn't say anything about changing my philosophies," he said, more confused than anything else. Because if that was going to come up then it probably should have been mentioned a while ago. If anything, Spock seemed to have been making a point of emphasizing how much he _liked_ Jim's humanity.

"It is what my mother did," the old man said soberly. "She was not as successful in her suppressions as Vulcan standards would have, but she attempted them. Focus. Control. Reliance upon logic over emotion."

"He hasn't asked me for any of that."

"It is what it would mean if you were to attempt a formal, traditional coupling," Spock informed him.

Jim frowned. "Then why didn't _he_ tell me about it?" He knew he couldn't do something like that. His one abysmal, failed attempt at meditation stood as a pretty good testament to how badly that shit would go down if he tried. And he didn't want to try. He _liked_ his emotions the vast majority of the time.

"I cannot say," Spock admitted. "Perhaps he believed that he could eventually sway you over to such philosophies. His motivations are not always apparent to me, despite our obvious connection to one another."

Alright. So Jim was starting to think that he was a bit sketchier on some things than he had been before. But he was pretty sure that Spock had _met_ him, and so was well aware that turning him on to Vulcan philosophies just wasn't something that would pan out. One abysmally unsuccessful stint at meditating aside, he'd never even given the slightest hint that he was inclined to. But he didn't think the old man was lying or anything.

He thought back to when they'd started this courtship of theirs.

"I don't get it," he admitted. Then he moved away, falling back into the nearest chair. "I don't… I must be fucking cursed or something."

There was a pause, then the slight shifting of footsteps, and the old man was looking down at him inquiringly. "Cursed?" he asked, where his younger self would have likely made a derogatory remark about the likelihood of such superstitions affecting him.

Jim shook his head. "Well, what the fuck else can it be? If what you're saying's true then I'll have to choose between my emotions or sex. It's like I finally find something that I didn't even think _existed_, and I get hit with this. I have to decide if I can marry Spock and be someone I'm not – which I can't – or if I can call it off. And then try and go back to just being friends with him."

He didn't think he could manage that. If it came to it, he'd find a third option, he knew, it was just difficult to envision it at that point.

"Something you did not believe existed?" the old man asked him gently.

"Yeah, you know," he replied, almost absent-mindedly. "Like how people always _say_ they're in love but then two years later you're hearing about how they went their separate ways. Or they say they loved someone, but that person died a long time ago, so really, how do they even know they would have kept on loving them? I just figured it was bullshit." He shook his head. "Maybe it is."

The call for the door chimed. Jim looked up, as did the old man, and he was suddenly struck by how much time had passed.

After a second the chime rang again, and Spock moved to answer it. Jim followed not far behind him, and shouldn't have been surprised when his own Spock was revealed in the archway, features closed off and posture stiff.

"I had been wondering when you might arrive," the old man said, and he looked a little uncommonly tense himself as he politely gestured the younger Spock inside. "Jim informed me that you were conversing with our father."

Spock looked briefly around the room, eyes darting swiftly over the sparse decorations before finally coming to rest on him.

"Yes. He is… different. Far more open than I have ever known him to be prior to our mother's death," he replied, giving Jim an acknowledging nod of greeting.

"Interesting," the elder Spock noted. "I am afraid I have not re-acquainted myself with him. He is aware of my identity, as are several members of the council, but I believe he has been avoiding me."

"That would be like him," the younger Spock agreed, and his eyes narrowed ever-so-slightly as he looked at Jim, who had moved back towards the seating area now and was trying to think. Or not think. He wasn't actually sure which, and that was probably part of his trouble.

"I apologize for the delay in our explorations, Jim." He strode forward a little, but still stopped short of arm's length from him. "May I inquire as to the location of your uniform shirt?"

Jim glanced down. He'd forgotten about that. With a shrug, he looked back up at Spock, wearing a smile that didn't quite reach his eyes. "Just a run-in with an angry kid. It wasn't a big deal," he assured him.

Spock was being particularly hard to read, so he didn't know what his genuine reaction was. He _did_ look at him for a long moment, though, before letting his gaze drift towards the old man. "I trust you will not object to my interrupting your discussion, but perhaps we should depart. Jim?" he asked, and it was a sign of improvement in his interactions with his other self that he wasn't just demanding they leave.

"You are certain you would not prefer to remain for a short time?" the old man asked.

Again, Spock looked to Jim. But Jim was having a bit of an internal system's malfunction. His only response was another shrug, which caused his Spock's eyebrows to move just-so-slightly closer together.

"…Another time, perhaps," he said, and the old man looked a little concerned, but didn't try and stop them from leaving again.

He did, however, close one hand on Jim's shoulder before he went.

"If I have caused you distress, Jim, I apologize. It was not my intention," he said, and even though his own Spock didn't move, he could almost _feel_ the air around him tense.

Jim shook his head. "I know," he said, and he _did_ know. But he could almost wish that he hadn't learned anything new since that morning, because the universe had made more sense then.

Still. There was an obvious solution to his dilemma, as unpleasant as the end result might be. The old man took his hand from his shoulder. The front door slid shut behind him. His Spock turned towards him, opening his mouth to speak, but Jim never found out what he was going to say.

"We need to talk," he told him instead.

Spock regarded him solemnly for a moment.

"...It appears that we do," he agreed at length. Then he turned, examining the path laid before them. With the faintest of motions he closed a hand around Jim's sleeve and tugged, slightly, indicating that he should follow him away from the small house. It was a less open gesture than he'd probably have given onboard the _Enterprise_, but it was still something, and Jim was a little surprised at the trill of sentiment the simple contact evoked in him. Especially given his current frame of mind.

The colony was much more pleasant in the dusk. The lanterns let off a pleasant glow, and most of the starkness had drained away with the sunlight. It was quiet, but there _were_ a few people moving around. Jim thought he could make out the distant sound of string music.

"A party?" he asked before he could stop himself, betraying his surprise. Spock inclined his head slightly.

"A modest concert," he corrected. "They are common evening diversions, and are likely to be prevalent here due to their capacity for promoting calm. It should last for several hours. If you are inclined to attend, it may prove to be of interest."

He didn't make much comment either way. Their walking brought them from the main hub of activity, though, so it was clear that Spock wasn't trying to get out of talking to him or distract him. Not that he'd have a reason to. They came upon another quiet little garden-type area, smaller than the one he'd found the old man and the children in, and with far fewer plants.

It was still and tranquil, if a little bare. A single lantern provided some quiet illumination. It cast shadows on Spock's angular features and made him look sharper.

There were things Jim could say. But he seemed to have forgotten them, losing them in the tangle of his thoughts, and so for several minutes they simply stood there. Fortunately, Spock was more than competent when it came to patience, and just waited.

And waited.

And finally, Jim said, "What are you doing?"

Which was incredibly vague, and probably should have been fleshed out with a few more details and specifics, but just then he was a little caught on the idea that Spock might try and destroy their relationship at some point before he was forty. Except that he might not, because he was a different Spock, and even if he did, he wouldn't succeed. Or he would, again because he was a different Spock.

The only conclusion he could get out of _that_ tangled mess was that he really hated alternate realities. Even if they weren't really important to what was going on right now, and therefore shouldn't bother him. What _was_ important was this whole revelation about Vulcan marriages. That was the part that had gotten fucked up here, and that was the part he needed to deal with.

There. That gave him something solid to work with.

"I am standing here, in your company," Spock answered him simply. "Would you tell me what my alternate self has done to agitate you?"

A complicated question.

"I asked him something, and I didn't like the answer," Jim replied, deciding to be honest – although he figured he'd leave out his actual question for now, all things considered. "Spock… I can't be like a Vulcan."

One of Spock's brows ticked fractionally upwards. "Indeed?" he said. "I believe we have discussed this before."

"Yeah, we've talked about the fact that I'm _not_ _Vulcan_," Jim agreed. "But not… not what I'm capable of philosophy-wise. You know?"

Spock regarded him quietly for a moment.

"Jim," he said, moving a step forward so that he was closer by. His body heat did nothing to sooth the still fairly high temperatures around them, but it wasn't like he minded. "Being Vulcan is entirely a matter of philosophy. Vulcans who do not follow Surakian teachings and principals are not considered to be true Vulcans, regardless of their physiology. It is a frame of mind – a frame of mind which is nearly impossible for other species to achieve, and often inadvisable for them to attempt."

He drew in a breath, not sure he knew where this was going. Spock tilted his head slightly. "As I have said, it would have been illogical to initiate a relationship with you, a human, if I were desirous of pursuing one with a Vulcan."

It was the slightest undercurrent of conviction to his voice which really caught Jim's attention. Mostly because he wasn't completely certain of how he'd heard it, and yet, he _knew_ that he had. "The old man said that if our courtship ended in marriage, that meant I'd be expected to 'adopt Surakian principals'," he admitted, searching Spock's gaze. "I don't think I can do that."

There were any number of ways it could have gone. Jim didn't know how to predict them, whether Spock would decide that, logically, it would be best to quit now in that case, or if this was all some massive misunderstanding.

After a moment, Spock closed his eyes for a beat, and then – with the slightest glance around for observers – extended his fingers to Jim.

He met them.

It wasn't like it usually was, where he felt a tingle of pleasure, even a slight thrill at the contact. Instead it was distinctly soothing, like running his hand under cool water.

"I would not ask you to," Spock replied. "After all, I am half human. I wish to adhere to the customs of my people, but I will not expect you to do the same, regardless of our relationship." One corner of his mouth gave the slightest twitch, nearly lost in the dim light. "I am capable of being unorthodox. It is a trait I inherited from my father, so it would be difficult to argue that it is not in keeping with my Vulcan heritage."

Jim exhaled, and as he did, he realized just how tightly wound he'd gotten while he was talking to the old man. There was still a heavy feeling in his chest, but it seemed less hollow now. The muscles his shoulder, tension in his neck, his arms, his legs all lessened. He'd _known_ that. He had. Now he felt like he'd been an idiot. After a second or two, he grinned.

"…So, if you're capable of being unorthodox, think you'd bend propriety long enough to consider the benefits of pre-marital sex?" he asked, and Spock carefully separated their touch. Before their hands had moved too far apart, Jim shifted his own and brushed the back of the backs of his fingers against Spock's palm. It was too dark for him to really tell if he got much of a reaction or not, but when he spoke again, Spock's voice was distinctly low.

"Compromise is rarely without its drawbacks. However, I would prefer to adhere to as many cultural standards as are reasonably applicable to our situation," he said, and then shook his head minutely. "Jim. As I have stated, we have discussed this before. I would be interested to know what has provoked these questions."

Jim thought about it. He considered just letting it all go pouring out right there, to tell Spock everything. At that point he wasn't even surprised at how easy the prospect of it seemed. There was something undeniably reasonable about just voicing what had gone on inside of his head, and during his discussion with the other Spock, and he supposed it was because of his first officer's inherently logical nature. Keeping things needlessly packed away just seemed… well, needless.

But at the same time, he decided that he wanted to be in a better position for this conversation. Not coming down off of a recent stumble into insecurity and speculation. He was certain the old man had his best interests at heart. He was just thinking of the wrong Jim. Maybe in that other lifetime he'd been content to just ride along in his relationship with Spock, to let things come and go. There was a certain casual appeal to it, he supposed, to have something so constant and yet unrestrained. But he himself found the stability Spock gave him, even when he was causing him nothing but confusion, settled him in a rare way.

He didn't want to lose it. It had its downsides, but he kind of liked that his Spock was a bit more demanding of him than the other had been of his own Jim. Because it let _him_, in turn, be more demanding as well.

Someday that might change. Someday he might be happier to drift in a distant orbit around the people and things he was starting to truly care about. But for now he needed to hang on to them.

"I'll tell you another time," he promised eventually, and giving in to the impulse, clasped Spock's shoulder. "Trust me?"

"Of course," Spock agreed, inclining his head, looking at Jim briefly from below his arched brows and the hood of his eyes. It immediately set the blood singing in his veins, because damn but that look was about one degree away from the bedroom.

Spock knew it, too.

"You don't make this whole abstinence thing easy," Jim informed him, and if they'd been normal people in a normal, non-Vulcan-involved relationship, he would have slung his arm around Spock. But since they weren't, he settled for bumping his shoulder lightly against him as they turned to leave the tiny little half-garden. Spock's mask slid more fully back into place once more, so Jim wasn't sure how he picked up a playful note to his demeanor, except that he pretty much did.

"Indeed?" he asked. "I was unaware that I presented you with any type of challenge." His voice adopted a tone of mock-innocence then.

Jim just shook his head.

They walked in silence for a while then, gradually making their way closer to the soft sounds of the string music coming from a little central square, which the largest streets seemed to branch out from. A pair of young Vulcan women were playing next to a base that looked as if it was intended to eventually hold some kind of statue. It hadn't been filled yet, though. A fair sized group of colonists had gathered around the two, standing quietly and just listening. One or two had their eyes closed. Otherwise, there were very few gestures or motions to indicate that anything entertaining was going on. No one had drinks. No one was chatting softly below the music, or milling around to greet different people in the crowd.

Spock had been right. 'Party' wasn't a good word to describe it. Personally he wouldn't have gone with 'concert' either, but 'standing around and listening quietly' was kind of long-winded. The music was nice, in a horribly boring way. Jim guessed that it was probably one of those things that was really brilliant if you knew what was going on. To him it was just kind of harp-like and dull. They drew to a stop at the edge of the gathering, and Spock seemed inclined to just listen. So Jim folded his arms and leaned against the nearest wall, and focused his attention instead on the Vulcans around them.

There wasn't a whole lot to see, really. Purple and orange seemed to be popular colours for scarves, with brown and tan being used for most of their wide-sleeved outfits. There were a few ladies in the crowd who had long hair, and some who favored the short, cropped cut which all of the men seemed to have. He wondered if it was a personal preference thing, or if there was a reason for it. Another idle question to ask Spock at some point.

At least he got the answer to another thing he'd wondered about when he saw a few dark-skinned Vulcans mingling in with the crowd. One of the girls playing the lyre had features that would be identified as Asiatic on a human, too. It made him wonder how many races, cultures, and sub-cultures _within_ the Vulcan people had been eradicated – or would be, slowly, over the steady progression of time.

At the same time, though, they'd survived and were rebuilding. There wasn't much else except to move forward. And at least they had their perfect memories to help them recreate everything it was _possible_ to recreate.

The faintest movement caught his eye, and he tilted his head as he noted a dark-skinned, long-haired Vulcan woman gently extend a familiar gesture to the man beside here. Their fingers briefly touched before pulling away. They didn't even so much as glance at one another, and the contact was much quicker than it generally was between himself and Spock. More like a peck on the cheek, he guessed.

Either that or Spock had been doing the Vulcan equivalent of making out with him for a while now. Frequently, and in public.

That thought made him grin.

After a few minutes of music and boredom – because people-watching was usually only interesting when the people _did_ things – Jim decided to test his theory. He glanced towards Spock, and then, very subtly, extended his hand to him. It took a second for Spock to realize he'd done it, distracted as his focus was. When he did one of his eyebrows ticked up marginally, reflexively. But then he met the gesture.

Tap.

It was very quick, almost screaming of propriety and their public setting.

His grin widened as he retracted his hand. Spock promptly returned to watching the musicians, and Jim rubbed a thumb along the tips of his fingers. And here all this time he'd been thinking his first officer was an example of a typical Vulcan prude. Well, outwardly, anyway. But if this one example was any indication, Spock was actually pretty daring. He'd been taking _liberties_ with Jim's hands. Which was awesome.

He was still smiling in a very self-satisfied sort of way when the music stopped. There were no applause. Not even an appreciative murmur as the ladies gathered their instruments up and left, being replaced a few minutes later by a young man with a set of drums.

At least it wasn't more strings.

Jim couldn't help but shift a little restlessly, though, as it became apparent that standing around and listening was essentially the plan for however long this thing lasted. He should probably have been making an effort towards cultural appreciation or something, and he was, really, but this was _boring_. The drums were struck in a very rhythmic fashion, and there was absolutely zero fervor or intensity, even during the fast parts.

Spock must have realized that he was about ready to jump out of his skin, because a few minutes into it he turned and indicated with a slight movement of his head that Jim should follow him. When they'd gotten a little ways away from the drumbeats and the gathering, he leaned over, breath ghosting near Jim's cheek. "Perhaps it would be more worthwhile to examine the new temple. I am curious to see what, if any, architectural changes were necessary," he whispered.

"Very few," a strong female voice said from behind them.

The reaction was immediate. Spock straightened up in a blink, and Jim paused, because suddenly it seemed like there was ten feet of space between them and somehow his first officer had managed to jump away without _actually_ jumping. Which was impressive and kind of weird at the same time.

He turned around, shooting one quizzical glance at Spock, and then another towards the stern-looking Vulcan woman standing not far away. Jim recognized her from the 'concert'. Her hair was done up in a fairly elaborate style, and she captured that very Vulcan air of being simultaneously neutral and vaguely cranky at the same time. He guessed that she must have followed them.

"Spock," she greeted, raising her hand in the Vulcan salute.

After a second, Spock tossed it up, too.

"T'Pau," he replied.

---

**Author's Note:** Back! I seem to have permanently slowed down when it comes to chapters for this arc. I'll still pretty much just post as I'm done, and hopefully it'll speed up again. I think it's because it's the last part. Anyway, more awkward Vulcan-ness awaits...


	32. Chapter 32

There was a moment of awkward silence, and Jim got the distinct impression that he now knew what it felt like to get caught in the act by someone's grandmother. Which was weird because they hadn't even been _doing_ anything. Well, Spock had been standing pretty close, but really he hadn't even touched him, and as far as he knew Vulcans didn't have anything against conspiratorial whispers.

'T'Pau', as Spock had addressed the woman, looked fairly mature by Vulcan standards. If he hadn't known Spock as well as he did, he would never have guessed that there was any significant relationship between her and his first officer. But Spock's reaction gave it away. This lady was, at the very least, important. Maybe she was one of the council members?

Actually, for all he knew she _could_ be Spock's grandmother.

His first officer was looking as uncomfortable and as stony as he had been in front of his father now, all of the little, subtle lightness he'd been directing quietly towards Jim gone in a heartbeat. "I trust you are well?" he asked.

T'Pau was remarkably non-expressive even by Vulcan standards. She didn't incline her head, didn't nod or gesture or do much of anything other than lower her hand and stare directly at the two of them. She didn't answer Spock's question, either.

"Accompany me to the temple," she said simply, coming across as someone who expected people to do precisely what she told them to, just because she'd told them to do it. Jim's hackles immediately went up. He didn't like being arbitrarily bossed around. It didn't help that Spock just fell into step a few paces behind her, leaving him standing in the street for a few seconds, wondering where exactly _this_ was going to go.

He hesitated, but he already _knew_ that he was going to follow them, so with a few unpleasant internal thoughts for this woman's attitude he moved to catch up and walk alongside Spock.

His first officer shot him what Jim could almost make out to be an apologetic glance. It lasted for less than half a second, and was clearly done behind T'Pau's back, but he caught it nonetheless.

Internally, he sighed.

"So. T'Pau, huh?" Well, it couldn't hurt to be friendly.

Apparently the situation was a little different for T'Pau, though. She didn't acknowledge his comment, choosing, instead, to keep her focus forward. Not even sparing him so much as a glance.

"That music seemed really…" Pleasant? Boring? Drawn out? "Skilled." He was getting better at talking to Vulcans.

There was another awkward moment of silence, during which T'Pau didn't react.

Or maybe not so much.

Jim threw on his most charming smile. He'd already made an ass of himself in front of Sarek, he'd like to avoid repeating the experience with any other important Vulcans in Spock's life. "You, uh, you said that they didn't have to make many changes to the temple? That's good. Right?"

It was Spock who answered him this time, filling in the uncomfortable silence. "While it would be impossible to replicate the antiquity lost, it is, indeed, fortunate that few alterations were necessary."

"It is of no consequence," T'Pau corrected, and Jim could tell that that was a shocking statement, because Spock's eyebrows actually flew up. Given the level of composure he knew his first officer was shooting for, that was extremely telling. In the lantern light they painted quite the trio, he in his Starfleet backs, his first officer rigid and composed apart from the tell of his eyes, and the regal Vulcan woman, drowning in robes and her unchanging profile. _Weird,_ he concluded.

"No consequence?" Spock repeated, and there was a deferential politeness to his tone that Jim had almost never heard before. Even _admirals_ didn't get that level of respect from Spock. It further cemented his assessment that this T'Pau was a Person of Importance.

"So I have said," she agreed. "Sentimentality is needless."

Jim wasn't completely certain of how he knew it, but if the eyebrows hadn't already been in orbit, they would have been after that.

"It was not my intention to imply a sense of sentiment. The temple is a traditional structure, its accurate recreation is-"

"Irrelevant," T'Pau interrupted. "The building is only temporary. Once we have the resources and time to spare, it will be reconstructed by Vulcan hands."

Jim blinked. His gaze drifted up the road to the tall, spire-topped structure they were heading towards. It looked like a feat of manpower and engineering, especially given how _quickly_ it had been put up. "What's wrong with non-Vulcan hands?" he asked, and then his lips quirked in amusement. He glanced towards Spock, thinking that it was an ironic sentence to have pop out of his mouth, all things considered. Spock looked perfectly normal, but Jim got the slightest – maybe hopeful or even just speculated on his own part – impression that he was embarrassed again.

"There is no technical flaw in alien hands, Captain Kirk," T'Pau replied, which kind of surprised him, because he'd been starting to think that she wouldn't actually respond to him. "But they are not Vulcan hands. The temple is the core of this settlement. It is unfitting that it should be constructed by humans, however necessary it may have been at the time."

Immediately, Jim decided that she was no one to tell Spock off for being sentimental. "Is that some kind of tradition?" he asked. What he _wanted_ to ask was 'isn't that kind of illogical?' or 'aren't you being a hypocrite?' but Spock was standing right there, exuding _please shut up_ vibes through some inexplicable means. It was almost a shame Bones hadn't come with them. He would've just called the woman out.

Still, he was aware that something a little odd was going on. He'd gotten pretty good at reading Spock, but this was almost _insane_. He wasn't doing anything. He was pointedly being about as expressive as cardboard. So was Jim just imagining these little hints of behavior, or had he turned into some kind of crazy Spock-Invisible-Body-Linguistics expert?

"There is no precedent for this situation," T'Pau informed him. "There can be no traditions for it either."

"Prior to Nero's actions, there had been no need to bring in outside assistance for planetary construction efforts," Spock promptly elaborated. "Vulcan's on-world projects were quite insular." He looked briefly over at Jim, but it was clear that he was keeping most of his focus on the woman steadily leading them towards the temple.

Jim shrugged, folding his arms together and glancing up at the star-filled expanse overhead. "So, why's it a problem that non-Vulcans helped build the temple, then? It's still a Vulcan temple, isn't it?"

"No."

"Yes."

The 'no' had been T'Pau. The 'yes' had been Spock. Both had spoken up at the same time, and immediately afterwards paused to look at one another. Jim wondered if Spock would have kept quiet had he known that the woman would voice a dissenting opinion.

"I am Vulcan," Spock said simply, and unconsciously Jim moved to stand just a bit closer to him. "Technically I was also constructed with the aid of non-Vulcan hands. I do not see why the temple should fail to qualify for similar reasons," he explained a little stiffly.

T'Pau gave him a long look. Then, after a time, she started walking again. "There are many who would contest your assessment," she said. "They believe you have shown ruthless logic since the death of Vulcan."

The expression of confusion which flitted across his first officer's face was momentary, but it was there nonetheless. Jim scowled, wondering what the heck this lady was talking about. 'Ruthless logic'? Like what? And how would _she_ know what kind of logic he'd been displaying, he'd been aboard the _Enterprise_ for the past several months.

"I do not understand," Spock said, confirming that Jim wasn't the only one in the dark.

"It is simple," T'Pau informed him. "We have lost our strength, resources, and the majority of our influence as a people. Our only option is to rebuild. You are not so limited. Why devote your energies to the restoration of an injured race when you can simply choose to favor a different side of your heritage instead?" she asked. "It is a logical decision. Abandoning your Vulcan half and embracing your human as the situation merits."

For a solid minute, Jim was just shocked.

Then he was pissed.

_This_ was what the people here thought of his first officer? That he'd decided to run off and be human, now that it wasn't _advantageous_ enough to be Vulcan?

Spock looked like he didn't know what to say. "That is…" he began, his voice crisp and even before it tapered off into uncertainty.

"That's the biggest pile of ignorant shit I've heard this week," Jim supplied helpfully, deciding that, important or no, he wasn't going to try and make polite talk with T'Pau anymore. "Spock's not running around onboard the ship trying to convince everyone that he's human now. He's a Vulcan enlisted in Starfleet – just like how we have Andorians and Tellarites and all kinds of others species, even if we _are_ mostly human," he argued. "You don't know the first thing about his character if you think he's just going to abandon his culture because you're on hard times. _Ruthless logic_ – fucking load of bullshit. Spock's too good for that, and anyone who says otherwise just wishes that _they_ were half-human."

T'Pau turned her head and glanced at him, and Jim hoped he hadn't just done something really stupid.

"Yet he is with you, not us," she pointed out simply.

Right about then Jim found himself wishing emphatically that they hadn't come down. This was the kind of talk that led to first officers resigning from the Fleet so that they could stay on sweltering hot colonies and prove that they weren't traitors.

"He was already enlisted in Starfleet before all of this happened," Jim pointed out, not liking the conversation at all and feeling his temper rising. For an unemotional race, Vulcans were pretty good at insults. "And it's not like he hasn't been doing what he can to help the colony, either." He glanced over at Spock, who was regarding them both with a very closed expression.

"You defend him," T'Pau noted, her eyes darting briefly in his first officer's direction as if she, too, was checking his reaction. Which she probably was. "Does he speak for you, Spock?"

Spock paused. "…He speaks his thoughts," he said after a moment.

"I see."

Jim resisted the urge to bang his head against the nearest available surface. Barely. Because he hated conversations that happened in some kind of code which he wasn't familiar with. He opened his mouth, and he was certain that whatever he could have said would have revealed just that he _wasn't_ thinking too highly of things right then, but at that moment his communicator sounded. It was a relief to accept the call from the ship.

"Kirk here," he said, frankly hoping to hear that some minor disaster required the immediate attention of both captain and first officer.

Uhura's familiar, formal tones drifted over the line. "Sir. We've received new orders from Starfleet Command. I thought you'd want to know," she informed him.

"Anything urgent or classified, Lieutenant?" he asked, looking up at T'Pau.

"No, sir," Uhura replied. "We've been instructed to continue with basic repairs and then proceed to Starbase 18 for further assistance."

Starbase 18? He scowled at the communicator. It was generally a captain's prerogative to decide where a ship went for repairs, and how much of it could be done by the crew versus what required more in-depth assistance and facilities. Jim had made his decisions on the matter. Being ordered to the starbase crossed a line. It was the admiralty micro-managing his affairs again.

Mentally, he started counting timeframes. The ship would be in order to proceed to the starbase probably in a day or two. That meant that if he was going to argue his way out of it he'd better start _now_, or else he'd run the risk of defying orders by sticking around any longer.

"Spock-"

"Feel free to return to the ship, Captain," Spock said, and Jim came up short, because from the tone of voice it was clear that his first officer didn't plan on going with him. "Unless my presence is required, I would prefer to remain here for the time being."

…Damn.

It was looking like Jim had a few options. The first was simply doing as Starfleet ordered, which went entirely against his whole 'sticking it to the man' concept of asserting himself on these issues. But it would mean he could continue to stay on the colony with Spock – and he didn't like the idea of leaving him alone just then. The second was ordering Spock back onto the ship with him, which would make _him_ feel better, but would also go against Spock's request. As the third option he could go ahead and return on his own, start telling the admiralty where they could shove it in the most polite way possible, and trust that his first officer would be able to handle himself.

"…Alright, Spock," he finally said. "I'll have to take a rain-check on that temple tour."

Spock nodded once, a gesture of acknowledgement and acceptance, and Jim resisted the urge to clasp his shoulder or change his decision. If he wanted to stay, that was his call.

For now.

"I'll take the shuttle back, I guess. Transporters should be stable soon, if Scotty's estimate holds, but if you need to get to the ship just call up. We can always send another shuttle down," he said.

"I will notify you if it becomes necessary," he said. "In the meantime, it would be prudent of me to escort you back to the landing pad. Your sense of direction has proven to be unreliable in the past." After a beat, he turned to T'Pau, and inclined his head in a deferential manner. "I shall see the captain away and return shortly."

Jim liked that he hadn't phrased that as a request, even if the tone undermined his word choices a little bit. T'Pau didn't object, though, and merely proceeded on her way. After a minute, Jim and Spock turned back down the street they'd been moving along, and he finally voiced the thoughts that had been bothering him.

"Okay, who the hell was she, and what was she playing at?"

Spock let out a soft exhalation of breath, relaxing marginally now that it was just the two of them together. "Vulcans do not 'play', Jim. She is T'Pau, the head of my family and a current member of the Vulcan council."

Head of his family. Well, that explained that.

"Does she always make it a point to insult you and question your loyalties, or is that a new thing?" he asked, folding his arms and looking distinctly disgruntled. Spock shook his head slightly.

"That was not her intent, Jim," he said. "She never stated that the opinion was one she agreed with nor disagreed with. All that she asserted was that such a sentiment regarding my decisions had arisen within the colony."

"Yeah, but the _way_ she said it…" Jim trailed off, realizing that the 'way' she'd said it had basically just been coolly logical, without any inflection towards the negative or positive.

Spock folded his hands lightly behind his back, slowing the pace of his steps a little as they walked. Jim followed suit after a moment, not feeling in a particular hurry himself. "Even by Vulcan standards, her manner is somewhat notoriously… abrupt," he agreed. "But the point she made was a valid one."

Jim shot him an incredulous look. "Valid?" he asked, his voice unintentionally resounding through some of the quieter parts of the street. He cleared his throat, and then lowered the volume of his speech. "How can you think that's _valid?_"

To his surprise, after a considering moment, Spock gave one of his slight half-shrugs. "To all appearances, it is true. I chose to remain in Starfleet rather than join the colony effort. I have spent considerably more time in the company of humans than Vulcans since the planet's destruction. Many of my recent decisions have not been based in conventional logic," he looked at Jim, then, and he got a pretty good idea what 'decisions' he was referring to. "If one were to assess the situation from a purely external perspective, it would appear that I have abandoned one culture for another."

Jim sighed. "Why do you have to be so reasonable about it?" he asked, almost jokingly. "It's insulting to imply that you'd stop being Vulcan just because it wasn't convenient."

"Indeed," Spock confirmed. "It is also poorly advised, as being Vulcan has never been a matter of convenience. But I am accustomed to insults."

Something inside of him dropped a little at that, like a missed step inside of his chest. Especially because it was said so matter-of-factly. Not that Spock was going to deliver it with much inflection _anyway_, given that he was still largely closed-off, but the effect was still the same. Reaching over, Jim closed the fingers of his hand gently around his first officer's wrist and gave it a quick squeeze. "Fucking jerks," he said with feeling.

"Jim…"

"What? I insult _back_," he said unapologetically. "If any of them were standing right here, I'd concoct some pretty logical arguments for why they could take their opinions and shove them right up their asses."

He grinned. Spock raised an eyebrow at him. "I would be intrigued to hear such arguments," he said, much to Jim's delight. "Particularly given their inherent physical impossibilities."

"Well, I figure they could write them out on a datapad first."

"Ah."

Some of the tension began to ebb away, then. At least on Jim's part. He got the impression that Spock was still wound a little tightly, but that could have just been the stiffness in his manner. It was strange – he'd gotten so used to having his first officer be relatively more open. Nothing threw it into contrast like seeing him close up and act more like a fully Vulcan individual. He was used to only seeing Spock act this way when something was wrong.

Jim thought he seemed more comfortable at the halfway point, when he was still mostly Vulcan, but a little more personable as well. Which made sense, really, considering everything.

They carried on for a short while in silence. After a few minutes Spock started pointing out interesting architectural features, his voice low and methodical, reminding Jim of when they were in Toronto and investigating the city.

"Many of the more complex architectural designs which would be found on Vulcan are not here," Spock noted. "It is likely because they take several years to construct."

"I'm sure this place will get there," Jim said. He meant it, too. What they'd managed to do already was more than impressive – it was astounding, in a quiet, understated sort of way.

"It is inadvisable to assume such things," Spock replied a little quietly. "Many and materials native to Vulcan are no longer available, and cannot be replaced or synthesized." He contemplated the buildings around them quietly for a moment. "It will not be the same," he concluded, and Jim thought, despite the fact that he had a Vulcan demeanor and they were in a Vulcan colony, surrounded by and speaking of Vulcan things, that it was a very human sentiment.

He couldn't really refute it, either.

Changing the topic would probably be a good idea. This shit was depressing. He fished around in his head for a minute for something relevant, and then his curiosity got the better of him.

"So, your dad's alright?" he asked, not even bothering to try and tactfully inch his way there.

Spock glanced at him. "No," he replied bluntly, surprising Jim. "He is not. Recent events have left him mentally unwell."

"Mentally unwell?" That could mean a lot of things. Particularly with Vulcans.

"Emotionally unstable and unable to properly focus. In addition, the stresses of this situation have been manifesting physically," Spock elaborated. "I request that you do not inform him that I have apprised you of his status."

Jim blinked. "You mean, don't tell him you told me about it?"

"Precisely," he agreed. "He would not appreciate your knowledge of these circumstances."

On that note he hesitated for a moment, and Jim watched him, concluding that if he'd been trying to lighten things up a little bit he'd picked the wrong conversation topic. But he wasn't going to shut it down if Spock planned on confiding in him.

"…I have not yet informed him of the changed status in our relationship," he admitted. "I admit that I am uncertain as to his reaction, and it did not seem advisable to risk causing him further stress."

Nervous. It was very subtle, but somehow he knew Spock was just a little bit nervous, as if he expected Jim to react badly to this news.

Well, he could put _that_ particular fear to rest. If he wasn't just imagining it, anyway. "Yeah. I don't think he'd be too thrilled. I didn't exactly make the greatest first impression on him," he agreed.

Spock turned his head, regarding him with an indecipherable gaze. "You are not offended?" he asked.

Jim shrugged.

"Nah." he said. He'd never really been the kind of guy people wanted to introduce to their parents. Though, it would be a little awkward to get married without at least throwing the man a head's up.

Then again. Vulcans.

"I will inform him eventually," Spock assured him. "Once I am certain it will not cause him a mental collapse."

"That's probably a good idea," Jim agreed. "But seriously, don't worry about it."

"I have been told that informing one's parents of their relationships is considered a sign of commitment," Spock persisted. "I would not wish for you to think me uncommitted."

That gave Jim a moment of pause, but only because he thought of the old man, and what he'd said about his own relationship to the other version of himself.

"Relax, Spock," he said, even though Spock wasn't worked up. "I know."

Because his Spock was trying for something that the other one hadn't. So he had to just presume that his hang-ups weren't going to be the same, or that, at least, he was trying to push past them. It wasn't like Jim could ask him for any more than that. And, honestly, he didn't care if Sarek hadn't been told. It would probably just make things even more awkward when he was, and he might try and talk Spock out of it. So putting it off was fine by him.

He wondered who had told Spock about human relationships and parents, though. Probably Uhura. Or maybe his mother, come to think of it. After a minute, he decided to just ask.

"Nyota," Spock replied. "She mentioned it in passing when we were discussing the different customs between Vulcan and human relations."

"Oh."

The conversation tapered off after that for a time, falling into companionable silence which was only broken again when they sky was completely dark, and they'd almost completed the route back to the shuttle.

"Spock," Jim said, breaking the quiet between them as they entered the landing site, the shuttle sitting silently in the gloom. "I know you said that the rumours don't bother you. But if it'll help, I can stay down here," he offered, running a hand through his hair and shifting a foot against the fine grains of dirt below it. "We can always just report to the starbase. It won't kill me to just go with it this one time." Even though it would annoy him in the extreme. But he'd live.

They stilled alongside the shuttle, and Spock shook his head slightly. "It is not necessary," he assured him. "Such accusations are understandable. But they do not bother me."

He gave Spock a skeptical look, folding his arms and kind of wishing he could do that eyebrow thing, but not even _trying_ because it would probably just look ridiculous on him. It took a long, silent moment, and eventually, his first officer cracked a little.

"Jim," he said. "During the Nero incident, my father admitted to making an important decision in his life on the basis of emotion. At the time when he made this decision, he had no excuse, such as the disaster, to merit it. He is fully Vulcan," he explained. "Breaking slightly from our traditions has not changed that. Regardless of what others may believe, my own breaks from tradition will not change the core of my own nature, either. The fact that they do not possess this insight makes their logic inherently flawed, because they do not have all the data required to reach an accurate conclusion."

_I'll be fine,_ every ounce of Spock's composure said, some of his rigidity dropping even further as they stood in shadowed privacy by the shuttle.

"Your father admitted to making an emotional decision?" Jim asked. "What was it?" He couldn't help the question, really, even though he guessed the answer.

The breath caught in his chest when Spock leaned forward, his expression intent, and lightly ghosted his fingers across the side of his face.

Jim could have sworn that his heart had just leapt up and started beating between his temples.

"An understandable one," he said, before retracting his hand. He was going to move away. Jim stepped forward before he could, not quite ready to abandon the moment, and wrapped his hands around Spock's upper arms. Then he pressed his lips to the space between his eyebrows, because as much as he wanted to catch their mouths together, he had a feeling that risking his first officer's composure in the colony would be cruel. His eyebrows did twitch upwards, however, which made Jim's lips quirk into a grin.

Then something sparked behind his own eyes.

The sudden little burst caught him off-guard, and Jim stepped back, blinking a little and frowning. Spock promptly moved from his grasp.

"Are you unharmed?" he asked, the concern in the words at odds with the sudden space between them. His first officer gave him an assessing gaze as Jim shook his head to try and clear it.

"Yeah," he said. "Just… what was that?"

Spock's fingers twitched a little, and he clasped his hands behind his back. "Forgive me," he said. "It was unintentional."

"You were reading my mind again?"

"…In a sense."

Jim glanced at him. "That wasn't like the last time," he noted.

Spock closed his eyes, briefly, and tilted his head. "The source of the connection was somewhat altered," he explained in an almost evasive manner. He looked… well, he looked like Spock. But he was _feeling_ a little guilty about something, and Jim's eyes narrowed, because he _should not know that._

"Spock…"

"It is nothing to concern yourself over," Spock assured him. "I will take care to monitor such things better in the future. It will not happen again."

"But what _was_ it?"

There was a long, drawn-out pause then, as his first officer froze up a little bit. He seemed to be considering his options.

"…When you inform me of what it was you discussed with my alternate self today," he said. "Then I will explain."

Jim frowned at that. But Spock seemed to have made up his mind, and he was still coming off as inexplicably embarrassed, as if Jim had just called him out on their little hand make-out sessions.

Maybe that was it, though. Maybe what had just happened was something along those lines.

Well, if that was the case, it wasn't like it _bothered_ him. He could let it go for now. And then when he floored Spock by proposing to him, regardless of his answer, he'd find out and then he could tease him about it. Presuming things didn't end in complete disaster, of course.

"Fine," he said, in the tone of someone long-suffering. "I'll let you be all mysterious and shit."

"Only for the time being," Spock assured him, a certain warmth breaking into his tone.

Jim let a slightly devilish grin overtake his face, then, and raised his hand for a kiss. With the two of them alone and no other Vulcans to see, Spock's touch lingered, pleasant and familiar.

"We're pretty racy by Vulcan standards, aren't we?" Jim asked.

Spock raised an eyebrow at him. "We are," he agreed. "As well as decidedly tame by human standards. I believe I have the advantage in our compromise."

Jim's grin spread, and he laughed. "Hey, come on, I'm pretty good at getting you to crack," he declared, resting the pad of his thumb against Spock's palm. "It's fun."

"The experience has been far from detrimental, particularly in honing my self-restraint," Spock agreed. He disconnected their hands, then, and took a step back.

"Call up if you need anything," Jim instructed him, punching in the code for the shuttle's access hatch.

"I will endeavor to recall the constitution class vessel in orbit should dire circumstances arise," Spock agreed, the unspoken message that Jim really needed to stop worrying, and yes, it was obvious, passing between them.

"Yeah, but you can call _me_, too," Jim reminded him, stepping lightly up the ramp. "Feel free to open up a channel if anyone starts questioning your loyalties. I'll get Bones in on the actions and we'll both swear at them until we're blue in the face."

"I am certain that it would prove to be a compelling rebuttal," Spock replied rather wryly.

"I don't think you've ever seen me and Bones tag-team on anyone before, have you?" he asked thoughtfully. "We're definitely compelling."

That had been one academy instructor who hadn't come back the next day.

Spock seemed to consider this. "The experience likely possesses a certain intimidation factor that is noteworthy."

Jim smirked. "Yeah. If we could combine it with your glare we'd probably be unstoppable."

"I do not know what you refer to, Jim. Vulcans do not 'glare'," his first officer innocently informed him.

"Sure they don't," he agreed in a mock-placating fashion. Then he put a hand against the side of the shuttle, leaning on it and swinging outward far enough to just press his lips to Spock's mouth in a 'see you later' kind of way before he pulled back again, and with a wink hit the command to close the hatch.

The worry didn't really take hold in earnest until he'd set up the launch codes, called the _Enterprise_ to let them know he was coming, and gotten the shuttle off the ground.

---

**Author's Note: **Argh! I was going to get this up yesterday but then I got swamped with work stuff. Sorry! If you left me a message or anything, I'll get to it as soon as I can.

Alright, that said, allow me to get up on my soapbox for a minute here.

Now, as some of you are already aware, this fanfic has in a sort of interesting way led to the existence of a new movement courtesy of LanceSkoggle. This movement is called SEE. Right now it's dedicated to efforts to get the writers of the next Star Trek films to better acknowledge the romantic chemistry between Kirk and Spock.

You might not really be a K/S shipper, you might not really like the idea of seeing it get mainstreamed, or you might think that such a notion as we meager fans influencing the relentless engine of Hollywood is too much of a long-shot to merit your time and energy. In which case, I recommend you check it out anyway, because ultimately SEE is about pushing social understanding forward. Plenty of you know about the social and technological innovations which Star Trek has inspired in the world. Communicators and cellphones, hyposprays and jet-injectors, warp drive and warp theory, television's first inter-racial kiss, the list goes on and on. Star Trek introduced people to ideas and concepts that made them think, promoted views of acceptance and understanding, and got people to want to _make_ the future that was laid out in the show a possibility. Gene Roddenberry once said that while Kirk and Spock weren't depicted as having a physical relationship, their level of affection was more than sufficient for that, 'if that were the particular style of the 23rd century'. Not 'if they were inclined towards other men' or 'if that was the sort of relationship they wanted'. So the question is, do _we _want a 23rd century in which our planet is capable of seeing a romantic relationship between two men, without any qualms? Because if we do, we've got to push for it. It isn't just going to happen on its own.

The link for the website is on my profile, but it's essentially , and right now it's pretty much just the forums – the official launch hasn't happened yet. But tons of help is needed, so please, if you enjoy 'Home' and my other stories, swing by and do what you can to help out!

/End soapbox.


	33. Chapter 33

When Jim got back to the ship the first thing he did was dispatch a message to Starfleet command, politely thanking them for their concern and assuring them that his crew was more than capable of handling their current issues without bothering any starbases. Then he retrieved a status report on their progress, and for a moment, almost reconsidered it. Not that his crew was doing a bad job or anything – no way. But as he looked at a to-do list that consisted of several pages of very, very _tiny_ text, and a confirmed repairs list that was only one page of normal-sized text, he wondered if he wasn't just exhausting his people for the sake of his own pride.

Of course, there was also _their_ pride to consider. Scotty was practically apoplectic at the implication that he couldn't fix his own ship when Jim told him that they might be heading off sooner than expected. He suspected that his chief engineer was running numbers in his head, trying to figure out if they could cram all of their repairs into one short, twenty-four period.

He made a mental note to keep an eye on the engineering duty rosters to make sure that Scotty didn't, you know, actually work his subordinates to death.

And then it seemed like spending a few hours on the colony had resulted in an eruption of chaos in his absence, because suddenly he was bogged down with tasks to approve, priorities to reconsider, reports to run through, and a reminder that next month he'd have to have his crew's performance evaluations ready for Starfleet.

He wondered if he could get away with just typing 'awesome work' into everyone's file. Somehow he didn't think Starfleet would appreciate his brevity, however honest it might have been.

One of the definite downsides to skipping straight ahead into the rank of captain was that it seemed like he got to miss out on the less _responsible_ jobs. Not that he'd trade it, or anything, but as he looked over the repair estimate for when the viewscreen's operating system would be back to one-hundred percent, and saw the tech from computer sciences working on it, he mused that that had never been – and now never would be – him. Sometimes it felt like he had all of these skills that were just sitting there, lost behind a datapad because he had to be busy _organizing_ shit while everyone else actually _did_ it.

Then again. Captain.

The moment was pretty fleeting, because really, if he wanted to go help fix the viewscreen's operating system, no one was going to stop him. Not on his own ship. So just for the sake of it, he spared a few minutes to lend the ensign on the job a hand, and he got two things out of it. For one, he managed to feel like he was being useful again, and not just dictatorial. For another, he made the acquaintance of Ensign Leung, who was incredibly nervous around him for some reason but then started talking about an incident involving her first year academy flight instructor and a nose-dive that had cemented her decision to aim for a more maintenance-oriented career. He liked getting to know his crew.

Partway through the process they were interrupted by a blonde-haired yeoman wielding another stack – well, _two_ probably wasn't a stack – of datapads for him to go through. She introduced herself as "Yeoman Rand, sir" with a smile that was just this side of flirtatious. He returned it almost entirely on automatic reflex, and then awkwardly considered that that _might_ be taken as encouragement, and so retracted it in exchange for the work she handed him.

"What're these?" he asked absently, thumbing through the first one and noting Scotty's signature on the bottom. He recognized it, not because it bore any _actual_ resemblance to the name 'Lieutenant-Commander Montgomery Scott', but because the only other ranking officer on the ship with writing that unintelligible was Bones, and Bones always started his signature out with 'Driller'. Supposedly it was actually 'Doctor', but Jim let the scribbles speak for themselves. So 'Lmt Candle Megumy 5oolt' was probably Scotty.

Either that or a crewman with a _very_ weird set of parents.

"Mr. Scott sent up the latest diagnostics report from Engineering. The other one is the crew requests for shore leave. They'll need your approval before anyone else can leave the ship, Captain," Rand informed him dutifully. Jim would have done it before taking his own leave, of course, but apparently other people actually needed things like _time_ to make decisions. He'd been a bit worried that no one else wanted to go, but he reeled in his curiosity and went over the status report first.

Seemed that the transporters were now as stable as they ever were, which was a good piece of news. Scotty still wanted to keep them from indulging the warp drive, though, since he wasn't sure he trusted the readout system for monitoring leaks, cracks, and radiation levels yet. Jim thought that this _may_ be a stalling method to buy them more time before they could reasonably follow Starfleet's contended orders. Particularly since the readout system's repairs were prioritized somewhere below fixing the melted consoles in the astrometrics lab.

Not that he was going to complain.

When he was done he handed the update back to Rand with an absent nod, and then turned his attention to the shore leave requests. There weren't many, and the vast majority of them came from the science department. Jim wasn't sure if this was because scientists were naturally inclined to be more curious about the colony or if it was some strange flocking instinct which centered around Spock. Or both.

It was probably both.

He approved the requests with a cursory check-over. There wasn't really anyone on the ship who he thought _shouldn't_ go down, except maybe Bones, and if he'd asked to then Jim probably would have died from shock. Which would have led to him getting revived in sickbay, and then he could have demanded to know in person why the doctor had lost his mind.

"Not going down yourself, Yeoman?" he asked, handing her back the second datapad. It was meant as a joke, really, especially since the fair-skinned woman probably wouldn't have done well in the scalding sunlight.

She looked momentarily alarmed. "Should I, sir?"

Jim blinked, because he had no idea why anyone would think he ought to know what they should do with their spare time. "…No?" he replied uncertainly, glancing at Ensign Leung, who was working diligently on the computer systems and seemingly unaware of any stilted conversations going on within her earshot.

Rand relaxed a bit, and shook her head. "Oh, good," she said. "I don't think I could handle all that sand and hot weather, to be honest, Captain!"

Jim smiled and nodded and concluded that some people took him _way_ too seriously. He let the yeoman go along her way and tried to get back to his self-appointed task, but a few minutes later he was being pulled away again by another one – this one a brunette, who was all business – so, eventually he gave it up as not meant to be and went back to his captainly duties.

His tedious, tedious captainly duties, which did a very bad job of distracting him from worrying about his first officer, because they weren't exactly _challenging_ right then. Just numerous. He worried that Spock was having a hard time. He worried that he _wasn't_, and that when he came back to the ship a large part of him would rather stay in the colony. Or that his father's condition would be concerning enough that he'd come back to the ship and wind up resigning his commission to look after him or something, and _dammit_, this sucked because he didn't really think it was going to happen, but that didn't stop his brain.

Mostly he was concerned that the other Vulcans were being jerks to him, though. He was sure that Spock could handle it. He was also sure that he shouldn't have to.

By the time he had another few minutes to himself it was the end of alpha shift, the 'evening' according the ship's clock and late night on the colony's surface. Spock hadn't called up to the ship or beamed back yet, which was a little worrying, but then again Vulcans didn't need to sleep every night the way that humans did. Jim took advantage of that fact and made a call down to his first officer's communicator.

"Spock here," came the formal reply, and Jim got a distinct 'there are other people in the room with me' impression from the tone of his voice. Which was fine, because he'd had to access his communicator from the bridge, so they were both in the same boat there. A very tired Uhura was sitting at her station and keeping the channel open for him.

"Mr. Spock," he said. "I was just wondering if you knew when I'd get my first officer back?"

There was a pause on the other end.

"If my presence is required, Captain, I can return immediately," Spock told him eventually. "However, if not, I request to remain here for another shift. There are several matters of interest that have commanded my attention."

Jim frowned a little, and wondered what qualified as 'matters of interest', since that could be anything from interesting development projects to someone trying to poison his food. He bit down on the impulse to ask if everything was alright, and then reluctantly approved his request. He couldn't think of a good reason to bring him back the ship, anyway, and Spock wouldn't have asked if he didn't _want_ to stay. Or think he should.

His frown had deepened by the time Uhura had closed the connection, and he realized that most of the bridge crew was watching him – some subtly, and others not so much. They all turned immediately back to their duties when he straightened up, though. Well, excepting his chief of communications, of course. She just regarded him for a second, looking tired. She'd pulled a double shift to try and oversee the last of her department's major repairs.

"Make sure you get some rest soon, Lieutenant," he said. Uhura graced him with a brief, half-hearted smile and a nod of agreement, which was probably the friendliest interaction they'd had since they'd gotten back from Earth, and Jim took it as a good sign.

It didn't do much to help his agitation, however.

Discomfort lingered under his skin when he left the bridge. At first he headed for his quarters, intent on resting for a while and calming himself down. It proved to be a bad idea. Mostly because of the conspicuous lack of chess partners or distractions. The still and quiet of his quarters wasn't much comfort. It was more than just that he missed Spock – he wasn't _that_ much of a sap yet, thanks – it was his own anxiousness. After a few minutes he was pacing his quarters, tapping one hand against the side of his leg and feeling increasingly frustrated. He didn't even know what he was frustrated _with_. Spock? The colony? Vulcans in general? His own inactivity? Starfleet? Everything, maybe?

He took a breath, and blew it out again between his lips.

Punching something seemed like a good idea.

With that in mind he headed down to the gym and vented his frustrations on a hapless punching bag until his limbs were pleasantly exhausted and his lungs had that mild burn of over-exertion.

It was everything, he decided when he was finally standing, exhausted, in the shower. Not even a year ago he'd been a guy with something to prove. Now, though, he was getting tired of proving – now he was just trying not to _lose_ anything. It was a better place to be, but it was also a more difficult one. He didn't want to worry about Spock. He didn't want to worry about Starfleet. For about fifteen minutes, he considered how nice it would be if it all could just be _simple_. What the old man had said had shaken him. What T'Pau had said had pissed him off. He had crew with the _Nelson_ on a mission that was still making his head reel, Starfleet was trying to make too many of his decisions for him, his ship had seen better days, and he _still_ didn't know how he was supposed to ask Spock...

Dammit. No wonder his stress levels had gotten high. None of this was crisis-type stuff, either, the kind of thing that demanded decisions and didn't leave any time to build up in his system before the situation was dealt with, one way or another, and it all blew over. Nope, this was a whole bunch of quiet, nagging, obnoxious bullshit that he couldn't do anything about.

Well, except the proposing. It was probably a good thing Spock was off the ship just then or Jim might have gone up to him and just asked, if for nothing else than to conclude at least _one_ of his problems. Issues. Things, or whatever.

By the time he'd cleaned himself up and emerged from the gym he was tired, but not tired enough to go back to his quarters. So instead he made he set off for sickbay, intent on dragging Bones out of his office and bothering him for a while. Having a medical crisis and a sickbay in technical disarray had turned his friend into all but a workaholic. Pretty much like the rest of the ship, in fact.

Jim managed to complete part of his plan. He got to sickbay and found Bones in his office, but the good doctor wasn't exactly in the mood to be dragged back out again.

"Do you have any damn idea how much I have to do?" he demanded, looking distinctly unimpressed at the idea of doing some perfectly sane, like taking a break. "I've still got eight patients laid up in recovery and an entire slew of shore-leave candidates to jack full of drugs. Why don't you beam back down to the colony and bother Spock some more?"

Jim blinked, and then frowned. It seemed that despite hypo-ing his neck to oblivion that morning his CMO still hadn't completely gotten over being put-out with him.

"Come on, Bones, you're not even on shift," he cajoled, deciding to ignore his friend's tone and slapping his shoulder. "I approve the duty rosters, remember? M'Benga's got sickbay under wraps."

Bones glanced at him, his gaze narrowing a little. "Come to think of it," he said. "Why _aren't_ you beaming back down to the colony?"

He shrugged.

This earned him a long stare, followed by a resigned sigh, and then his friend getting up and closing the door to his office. "Fine," he said. "You talk while I work."

"Talk?" Jim asked, genuinely confused as he was herded into the chair across from the desk, and Bones retook his seat on the other side. He gave Jim a look, as if to say that he was being intentionally dumb. Which probably wouldn't have bothered him so much if he _had_ been. As it stood now he just felt like an actual idiot. "Talk about what?"

Bones sighed. "Well, let's start with what's bothering you and go from there," he suggested.

"Nothing's bothering me."

Okay, so that was a lie, but what was Bones going to do about anything? Except maybe distract him. Which probably wouldn't happen if he was busy talking about his problems.

"Jim," he said. "Either talk or get out. It's your call."

For a few minutes Jim settled for Option C, which was sitting in the chair and giving his friend an unimpressed look. But Bones just went back to his work and ignored Jim – who had most emphatically _not_ come to talk about his problems – started scowling instead. Then he kicked the side of the desk lightly for a minute or two. Then he sighed and shifted in the chair. Finally, he spoke up, but it wasn't with any large revelations.

"What are you doing?" he asked instead, his limbs beginning to feel a little leaden from the day's activities. Bones didn't even look up when he answered.

"Inventory," he said.

"Oh."

Another minute ticked by. Jim leaned back in the chair, and despite the utter boredom of the moment and the lack of obliging distractions, found it actually wasn't so bad to just sit and listen to the beep of Bones' console. He didn't talk. Instead, after a while, he found his eyes drifting shut, his thoughts quiet as he kept his gaze on the silvery lining of the walls. He blinked, and the next thing he knew it felt like his face had been weighted down with a heavy blanket, and Bones' hand was on his shoulder.

Not a blink, then. He must've drifted off.

"You alright, Jim?" his friend asked in a tone of voice that implied he was about three seconds away from getting his tricorder and making his own assessment.

"'M fine, Bones," he replied. "How long?"

"It's been about an hour," the CMO supplied helpfully. "I thought you were being too quiet. If you're tired, Jim, go and sleep in your quarters for godsakes."

He sighed, and then nodded, getting up from his chair. "Yeah, I guess I should," he agreed, feeling the unpleasant lethargy that came from sleeping just a _little_, which made it worse than sleeping not at all would.

As he was leaving, the hand on his arm halted his progress. "You know, I might not actually _kill_ him, but if Spock's done something, Jim, you can tell me," he said. "I'm plenty creative. Did you know that the vaccine for the Rigellian Flu gives Vulcans a really terrible rash in some pretty sensitive areas?"

Jim did not know that. Nor did he want Spock getting any unpleasant rashes, although he appreciated the sentiment. More or less. "It's _fine_, Bones, Spock didn't do anything," he said – a comment that was received with some skepticism. He exhaled deeply and shook his head. "I just need to ask him something, and I'm not sure how to."

There was a bit of an awkward silence.

"…Knowing you, I probably shouldn't pry into this, but it's been awhile since I ate anything," the doctor said. "What do you need to ask him?"

He looked like he expected Jim to spout something bizarre and sexual and very, very kinky, which was funny enough that he almost did on principal. But his brain was a little too tired for that.

"Just if he'd married me," he assured him, and for a minute Bones looked relieved, following the tone of Jim's voice and the fact that he hadn't involved any cringe-inducing words in his sentence. Then the actual content of what he'd said hit home, and Bones stared at him.

And stared at him.

And when Jim didn't say 'gotcha', he groaned and dropped his face into his hands. "Jim," he said.

"Yeah?"

"Jim, how long have you been dating Spock for?"

He blinked, and thought about it. "You know, I'm not really sure," he admitted. "I didn't even think we'd gone on any actual dates until the other day, but it turns out when he asks me all formal-like if I'll do something with him, and we go and do it? Those were dates. Apparently. Why?"

Bones looked at him, then shook his head. "No, I mean…" he trailed off, and shook his head again, as if Jim was being very strange. But in a wholly expected way. "Don't you think it's a little soon to go and do something like pop the question?"

Jim nodded. "See, I thought about that," he said. And he sort of had. A little. "But I'm pretty sure I want to keep him around for as long as I can, and since I figured out that I… maybe… um, you know, love him and all of that shit, it'd be kind of stupid to wait around. Unless _he_ wants to wait around some more," he quickly amended. "But if there's a finish line to this whole process I'm waiting there right now."

Bones just kept looking at him.

He didn't fidget, because that would have been nervous and not at all profound, but his hands may have shifted the corner of his sleeve a little. For no reason.

"…Well, hell," he said at last. "If you fuck up that's what divorce is for."

Jim diplomatically decided to take that as well-wishes.

"Thanks," he replied.

"I have two suggestions," Bones informed him sagely, looking him dead in the eye and lowering his hands onto his shoulders. "The first one is the most important. Pre-nup."

"Bones. I don't own anything." Well, not anything that couldn't be replicated or fit into a duffle bag, anyway.

"...Okay, one suggestion, then," his friend amended. "Just ask him."

Jim blinked.

"Huh?"

Bones rolled his eyes. "He's _Spock_, Jim," he said, as if this should be obvious. "It's not like I'd know, but going out on a limb here I'd say he's not a big romantic type. He won't care _how_ you ask him. That'd be illogical. So just ask him the next time you can get him alone for a few a minutes."

He had a point.

On the other hand, as he'd said, Bones didn't really know – and Spock _was_ kind of romantic. In a weird, practical, ghost-kisses-on-your-ear and playing chess kind of way. That thought gave Jim pause, and he considered it for a minute. He didn't know if that was how Vulcans did romance or just the one half-Vulcan, but it didn't much matter. If that was the kind of language Spock was most comfortable speaking in, then maybe it was the best language to pop the question in.

"I have to go think," he decided.

"Don't strain yourself," the doctor advised, but Jim was already considering things to the point where all he did was nod and make his way – still mostly sleepy – out of sickbay and to his quarters.

For some reason once he actually got there, though, his drowsiness seemed to fade, and he found himself sitting at his desk, turning thoughts over in his head and wondering if he'd fall asleep in a chair again.

He did.

But before that happened he considered about twenty different ways to ask Spock to marry him, and picked one. Because he'd had enough of this shit, and being all hesitant and nervous didn't suit him.

A series of strange, disjointed dreams danced in his head for half of the night, calling up images of the old Corvette. He'd lost the keys to it, and try as he might he couldn't find them. No matter where he looked they remained stubbornly lost, until he finally gave up and found himself at his own funeral. He wound up making out with Spock at one of the buffet tables, though, so at least things more or less ended on a typical note.

He woke to find that the lights had automatically dimmed and that he was slumped over the top of the desk, his cheek pressed against the surface along with a not inconsiderable amount of drool. One of his arms had ended up at an awkward angle between the desk and chair and had gone numb. With a groan he shifted it, wincing at the pins and needles and wondering if that had been what woke him up.

Then the call for the door sounded. Presumably for at least the second time.

Blearily, Jim checked the time – three in the morning by the ship's clock – and then, feeling slightly confused and a little concerned that something had blown up or fallen apart while he'd been unconscious, he made his way over to the door and opened it.

All things considered, he really hadn't expected it to be Spock on the other side.

Not that he was complaining.

"Spock?" he asked. Or meant to ask. It actually came out more like 'spuh?' thanks to his sleep-addled mouth. His first officer lingered in the doorway, dressed in a slightly dusty uniform and…

…And sporting a bruise on his left cheek, livid green and yellow running along the bone. Jim scowled at it until it occurred to him that standing there glaring at his first officer's face might be giving him the wrong impression, and that Spock had yet to make much of a move or say anything. Reaching out, Jim closed one hand around his forearm, and then pulled him into his quarters. The door swooshed shut behind him.

He meant to say 'what happened?' but somehow the angrier and more presumptuous "who hit you?" was what tumbled past his lips.

Spock regarded him silently, stiff and still and warm beneath his grasp.

Jim tightened his grip.

"…It is not relevant," Spock said after a moment. "I apologize for disturbing you." His gaze took in his slightly rumpled uniform and the flitted briefly over to his untouched bed.

"I fell asleep in the chair," he explained. "So what happened to you?" His first officer still smelled of the desert world they were orbiting, and the dusting on his clothing and a small rip along the bottom of his blue shirt were giving Jim a dark impression of what might have gone on.

Spock's answer was to take a step towards him, exhale, and reach tentatively for his hand. Jim met him halfway.

"It is not important," he heard him say quietly, more of a whisper than anything else. He couldn't help but feel a little frustrated with that answer as their fingers closed together, and hea tremor of heat rushed underneath his skin. He blinked, then felt distinctly awake as Spock shifted and, far from maintaining the decorum of their gesture, suddenly gripped his hand, twining their fingers together and closing the distance between them, carefully bringing their mouths together.

Jim blinked again, because as pleasant as the lips suddenly moving against his were, he was becoming increasingly aroused and was alone in a mostly dark room in the middle of the night with Spock. Which was distinctly awesome, and he was pretty good at rolling with the punches. But there was a gigantic question mark hovering over this whole thing and he probably… should…

Spock wound an arm around his back and pressed in close to him, shifting their hips together and ensuring with appreciable efficiency that the last of the blood in Jim's head moved to more demanding areas. And then his first officer made one of his soft, strange little noises into Jim's mouth, and talking seemed like the least important thing ever. Next to thinking.

Still, he gave it a valiant effort, because this was Spock and he _really_ didn't want to screw things up right now. "Uh," he said. Which was meant to be 'are you sure you're in charge of all of your mental faculties right now, because I seem to remember you being the one who put that moratorium on this kind of thing, and I _know_ I didn't start this one because I was just sleeping and then answering a door'.

"I am taking liberties," Spock informed him. Which was obvious. "I believe this is permissible?" He quirked an eyebrow upwards, his expression a little too intent and seriousness to convey actual curiosity or amusement.

It should have been funny, though, because that was a stupid question to ask. Jim answered by pressing him up against the door and shifting his leg between his, planting his hands against warm hips and running his tongue along the spidery, oddly-textured skin of his scar. Spock inhaled sharply, gripping his shirt so tightly he ran a risk of ripping it for the second time that day as Jim moved against him.

There were no more questions from either of their lips after that. Not a lot of words longer than a syllable or two, in actual fact, and somehow or another they wound up eventually migrating to the bed, and Jim honestly tried to stay awake afterwards but by the end of it all he was warm and relaxed and deliciously spent, so it was a battle lost before it was begun.

The next time he woke it was because his alarm had gone off. He stared for a moment at the pointed ear which was in his immediate line of sight. There was a tiny green mark on the lobe from where he'd bitten down.

He did the responsible thing and pressed his lips against it, feeling a distinct sense of déjà-vu which would have been amplified had Spock been awake and playing with his hands. After a minute his ministrations earned a reaction – although he was sure that the alarm, at least, had woken his first officer up before he did – and found the ear moved out of reach as a pair of dark eyes regarded him solemnly.

Jim paused.

"If you say that was a mistake, I will kick your ass."

Spock raised an eyebrow at him. "Good morning, Jim," he replied, and _now_, at least, he looked kind of amused.

Jim grinned reflexively at that, shifting a little and becoming phenomenally aware of the way their bodies were fitted together, one of his hands resting comfortably against the small of Spock's back and the other one spread out beneath his neck. Spock's own long-fingered touch was against his thigh.

He cleared his throat a little. "Not that you should take this as any kind of disapproval," he said. "But I'm pretty sure we just had sex."

His first officer practically radiated amusement. "That would appear to be the case," he replied.

"Great," Jim said. "Except that I don't remember making any really compelling arguments in the two seconds between when you buzzed the door and when you jumped me, so I'm kind of wondering why exactly you changed your mind."

Spock's amusement dimmed, and he seemed to think for a long moment, his eyes flicking over Jim's face, his neck, his shoulders. He took a breath, and then shifted himself a little closer and touched their foreheads together, his exhalation ghosting over Jim's lips. As he made contact, something a little odd happened. It took him a minute to place the sensation – kind of like the little trill of connection their touches usually held had been dulled. The change was especially conspicuous since the sensation normally got _stronger_ (or weirder) when their heads touched, not quieter.

"I reconsidered," Spock said.

Jim gave a small snort. "Yeah, I guessed that much," he replied. "_Why?_"

"…When you returned to the ship," his first officer began with definite slowness, as if he didn't really want to say anything, but had already decided that he had to anyway. "I was presented with an opportunity to consult with my alternate self."

He froze.

"I did not inquire as to your question," Spock assured him immediately. "Even if I had I do not believe he would have divulged such information."

No, he probably wouldn't have.

"So what _did_ you ask him?" Jim wondered out loud.

The hands on him shifted, tightening their grip almost imperceptibly and making his blood pump a little faster than it had been before. "I had several inquiries," Spock admitted. "It occurred to me that even with the differences between our timelines, his insights would not be completely without merit. He provided me with the details of his relationship with your alternate self, several impending issues I would be wise to take precautions against, and the circumstances surrounding your death in the other timeline."

Jim blinked, and pulled back a little. "You asked him how I died?"

Spock replied with a look that said he really shouldn't be so surprised. "It is a matter of some interest to me," he explained, and okay, when he put it like that with the word 'obviously' lingering unspoken behind the rest, he guessed it made sense. Kind of. In a morbidly-creepy-but-also-strangely-touching way.

It did pose an interesting question, though. Jim exhaled. "So you heard about my other self's death and decided to beam back aboard and get some?" he asked, just to be sure he was getting this right. Again, not that he was complaining, but he knew that Spock's principals were important to him, and it was starting to sound like he'd had another freak-out. Just a kind of quiet, sexy one.

"While that would be a technically accurate break-down of events, it is over-simplified," Spock informed him.

"Then maybe you'd better start from the beginning," he suggested, mentally calculating how much time he had before he needed to be on the bridge. Enough for a long conversation and a very _short_ shower, he reasoned, if they skipped breakfast. Or some more sex, but as appealing as that idea was, talking probably had priority. For now.

Really. It did.

Dammit.

Spock regarded him silently for a moment before speaking again. It gave him enough time to appreciate just how _small_ the bed was, and how distinctly satisfying it felt to be entwined with Spock in it, warm and languid and very distracting.

"My father is a figure of increasing importance, given his status as ambassador to the world upon which the colony is most heavily reliant at this time," he began, which seemed like a wild veering off-topic, and Jim wondered if it counted as weird to talk about your father while you were naked in bed. Personally, he'd never tried it. "The demands upon him are extensive, and he has taken insufficient care in regards to his physical and mental health. I have become concerned for his well-being." He took in a breath and seemed to sink slightly further into the pillow behind his head. "However, given that our time here may be notably limited, I am not in an adequate position to render him any kind of substantial aid. I initially sought my alternate self out to request that he approach our father and monitor his health."

He hadn't _really_ been afraid that Spock would decide to stay on the colony. No. So he probably shouldn't have felt as relieved as he did that his first officer had made arrangements for his guaranteed absence from it. But he did anyway.

"I had not intended to make any further inquiries," Spock continued. "However, when I reached his residence, I found that my current frame of mind with regards to his recent conduct was perhaps not optimal for conversing."

Jim took a second to translate that out of Vague.

"You were all pissy with him?" he suggested.

"I may have been more abrupt than was necessary," Spock admitted. "However, his demeanor was easily as disapproving as my own."

"He was all pissy too?"

"Essentially."

He blew out an exasperated breath that made a few strands of Spock's bangs – which always fell politely back into place, no matter how thoroughly he ran his hands through them – flutter for a second. He had a feeling that if he were more expressive, Spock would have rolled his eyes then.

"Should an alternate version of yourself make an appearance in our universe, perhaps you will be less inclined to judge my distaste for his presence," he informed him. "Regardless, that ongoing discussion is not relevant to our current one."

Jim blinked. Then he grinned, because it was kind of endearing when Spock got all huffy.

His first officer's gaze moved briefly to the curve of his lips and some of the colour in his face grew darker before he started talking again. "Our conversation eventually deteriorated into a few key accusations, at which point he offered to divulge certain information of interest to me," he explained. "He… explained several factors of our relationship in his universe, and while I disagree with many of his assessments, he convinced me that I have been behaving detrimentally towards you."

All at once, it felt like someone had lodged something distinctly cold at the base of Jim's spine. He froze, looking into an earnest, honest dark gaze.

But the words which Spock said next sent his discomfort at war with another emotion.

"I will take you any way I can get you," he said quietly. "I will not impose restrictions upon you at the risk of losing you should they act against your inherent nature. In this light, if I must choose between social decorum or your companionship, the decision is obvious."

This seemed like the beginnings of a bad pattern. He wondered if it would ever be possible to have sex with Spock and then not get thrown into a blender full of emotions afterwards.

He stared at him for a quiet moment, taking in the angles of his face, of his collarbones, the lines of his body before it disappeared underneath the blankets, the feel of his hands on him. He moved his own arms and slid one of them off of his side and into his grasp, watching Spock's eyelids flutter momentarily as he pressed a kiss to his palm.

"For such a smart guy, Spock, sometimes you're an idiot," he informed him. Spock's eyes immediately flew open again, but whatever he was going to say died in his throat as Jim ran his tongue up along the pad of his thumb, coming out instead as a broken exhalation. "And if you'd waited like a day – not that I'm complaining – before you panicked and decided I was getting ready to pack my bags and start running around with presumably beautiful and sexually willing people left and right, you would know that, because I am awesome."

Confusion showed in Spock's eyes for a second before Jim experimentally ran his thumb along the soft skin between his index and middle finger. "…I do not understand," he admitted a little roughly, and Jim considered that maybe the quick shower could also figure in some quick fun, too?

"Well, I guess it fits," he said thoughtfully, shifting a bit because the sound of Spock _breathing_ like that was setting his blood on fire. "I mean you're prudish – by human standards, anyway – and I'm… uh, not, and here you are all willing to be sleeping around with a guy you're not even married to, and here _I_ am all willing to get married to a guy who I wasn't sleeping around with."

It wasn't the proposal he'd rehearsed. But it seemed to fit.

Spock froze.

Jim's nerves went into overdrive and he stilled as well. Waiting.

"…You are speaking in terms of your willingness to _consider_ a future marriage?" his first officer asked him eventually.

Jim's initial response was to press his lips against the pulse point of his wrist. "No," he then said. "I'm speaking in terms of getting a fucking marriage license. Today. If you want," he replied. "I could do it myself," and how weird was _that?_ "but I also can't, since it's, you know, _myself_. But I figure they must have some way of doing it on the colony." Then he considered that. "Or if you're worried about your father finding out we could do it the next time we're near a Federation planet. Or starbase. Or, hey, when we rendezvous with the _Nelson_ to pick up Sulu and Chekov and the others I could ask Captain Malhotra to do it."

It would be interesting to see the look on her face. He wondered if she'd even be surprised, considering she'd already seen him practically dead with worry at Spock's bedside. "If you want to," he repeated quickly.

Spock was looking at him with an unreadable expression on his face.

"It is not required," he said. "Jim, I will not make any unreasonable demands of you."

Jim's internal blender decided to settle on 'offended and slightly angry' at that remark. He scowled, and then, giving in to temptation, slid the pillow out from underneath Spock's head and hit him with it.

Apparently that was an unpredictable move, judging by the brief look of surprise it earned him.

"You know, _I_ had a conversation with the old man about us, too," he said. "That question I had?" Curiosity overrode Spock's previous, moderate expression. Jim inched away and nearly rolled himself off of the bed. "I was fishing for suggestions on how to ask you to marry me. And you know what he told me?"

After a second, Spock quietly shook his head, once.

"He told me all of this bullshit about him and the other me and how they'd dicked around for decades, and how you were being a manipulative jerk for trying to do something _official _and _monogamous_ with me because apparently you have emotional commitment issues and I like sex," he snapped. "But you're not him, and _I'm_ not some dumb animal who can't be happy unless he's rutting with anyone he finds attractive. You'd think I'd have proven that by now."

"Jim-"

"I mean, _you_ jumped _me_. You _usually_ jump me. And then leave, like a fucking tease, and if I can put up with that shit without grabbing the first semi-appealing crewmember to finish the job then maybe I'm not interested in sleeping around. Maybe I'd rather have you all of the time than just some of the time, with other people peppered in for fun. Maybe I don't _want_ some fucking 'open' rela-" his comments were cut off with a short 'mmph' as Spock's tongue put an abrupt stop to the flow of words.

He really liked Spock's tongue, though, so he didn't mind too much, even if he was still pissed off.

Something flickered at that touch, however, and the barrier that had been muting the less-human quality of their contact fell away. Jim started as it felt like a firecracker had been ignited behind his eyelids, and he _knew_ Spock had been holding back a little, had been trying to keep something like this from happening before but had apparently given up on that now. He felt relieved.

Except that he didn't. Or at least, that wasn't _his_ relief. It took him a second to sort out that he was actually just getting a very vivid impression that Spock was relieved, and it definitely wasn't because of his facial expression, which was currently set to 'make out'.

After a minute or two the kiss broke away, and his lips felt like they were on fire as his skin tingled and Spock's throat bobbed ever-so-slightly.

"It is illogical to over-complicate matters," he said, and somehow it managed to sound a little bit like an apology. "Vulcan marriages are simple ceremonies. A gong is struck, and the head of one or both participating families will preside. They are considered secondary connections, arrangements made mostly in legal terms, and are less important than the bond between the participants."

Jim turned that last sentence over in his head, trying to figure out why Spock would be telling him that being married was less important than being in love. It didn't _sound_ very Vulcan. It also kind of ran counter to what he'd been saying previously.

Clearly reading, and expecting, his confusion, Spock carried on. It was a little hard to focus on words just then, but Jim managed. "When I was betrothed at the age of seven, a mental connection was made between myself and my intended," he explained. "Such actions are often taken to facilitate or simulate a natural tie which Vulcan minds are prone to building with compatible partners. Upon T'Pring's death, that tie was broken, and my mind instinctively began to seek out an appropriate replacement among individuals with whom I had made physical contact."

For a moment, he seemed almost embarrassed.

"I did not realize this was occurring. It is a self-preservation instinct in most Vulcans, but not one which has commonly been an issue in the past. By the time I realized that I was subconsciously building a connection to you, it would have been difficult to halt the process without the aid of a trained mind healer," he explained, in a tone and manner which seemed to vaguely suggest that he'd been looking at dirty pictures of Jim behind his back. "I… was having difficulties in determining the most optimal means of informing you."

He stopped, then, not quite meeting Jim's eyes. It occurred to him that he should probably be shocked or something. Instead he was just mostly curious.

"What does it do?" he asked.

Spock blinked.

"The bond?" he clarified, and Jim nodded. "It permits greater insight to one another's well-being and mood, relative to proximity. In Vulcans it has several other chemical affects on the brain, although they are rarely discussed, and I must confess myself not overly well-informed in this area. Bonds are not usually detrimental, however."

He considered this, thinking on how he'd gotten weirdly psychic in regards to his first officer's moods lately. "So it's not like we can read each other's thoughts or anything?" he asked.

Spock's mouth made a somewhat relaxed quirk. "It would be easier to create a casual mental connection via touch than in a standard mindmeld, but no. Vulcan telepathic capabilities are not designed for sustained advanced contact with another mind, which is what would be required for such a process."

"…Huh," he concluded, licking his lips a little and then fixing them momentarily to the hot skin of Spock's jaw. "So basically what you're saying is that you're willing to play it fast and loose with me because all we need at this point is the paperwork?" Before Spock could reply, Jim slid his hand down between them, effectively cutting the words off into a small gasp. "You bastard. You're supposed to _ask_ someone before you marry them." The words were undermined by the fact that he didn't even sound remotely angry. Maybe that had something to do with the light feeling in his chest. Which wasn't giddiness, really, even if there wasn't a better word for it. It was… Spock-induced pleasantness.

Or, preferably, something even less stupid-sounding than that.

"You are… pleased?" Spock finally managed to say, looking a little bewildered.

Jim groaned. "No, Spock. I'm absolutely miserable. That's why I popped the question – because the idea of doing cool shit with you for the rest of forever is completely unappealing to me," he said against the skin of his neck. "Fuck, you said it yourself, why make it complicated?"

And when it was phrased like that, it really did seem remarkably dense, and like a waste of time to talk about things anymore when there were much more interesting uses for their mouths. After a few minutes Spock mentioned that they'd be needed on the bridge soon. Jim pointed out the merits of showering together in order to save time. Spock could see the logic in this, even though the ship's showers were _tiny_ and it wound up being kind of awkward with elbows and knees and Jim just laughing a lot, which actually made it kind of awesome, too. Because even uncomfortable shower sex with Spock was somehow stupidly hot, especially when his first officer kept _looking_ at him like that. Like he couldn't remember why they hadn't been doing this every single morning since San Francisco.

"I believe this qualifies as the shortest courtship in recorded Vulcan history," Spock informed him as he stole a clean pair of uniform pants from Jim's drawers – and even though they looked the same as most uniform pants that was so insanely sexy that he had to remind himself that it was bad form for the captain to turn up late for his shift. Especially if he was late because he was doing the commander.

"Yeah, well, it's _illogical_ to waste time," Jim replied cheerfully as his first officer slipped on one of his spare undershirts, as well, and he mentally added that it made it hotter that he didn't even _ask_.

"That is true," Spock conceded. "Particularly in such a dangerous field of work as our own."

Jim rolled his eyes. "Do me a favor and don't go on a mortality kick, alright?" he asked.

Spock's response to that was to raise an eyebrow at him and then gather up his dusty uniform from the floor, dressed in Jim's blacks and looking very dark and vaguely amused and okay he really had to stop going there right now. But his attention _did_ wander back over to the bruise mark on his cheek.

He stared at it thoughtfully for a moment. "What _else_ happened down there?" he asked at length.

Spock glanced up at him. "An altercation of little consequence," he replied with a bit too much innocence.

"Yeah? With who?" He tried to keep his own tone fairly casual as he pulled on his boots at the corner of the bed.

"I must retrieve a uniform shirt from my quarters," Spock replied, as if this action should somehow prevent him from identifying whoever had hit him. "We have insufficient time for further discussion."

Jim gave him a distinctly unimpressed look. "You're absolute shit at hedging," he informed him. "And I really doubt that _you_ would let _me_ get away with beaming aboard all beat up-"

"One small blemish hardly qualifies-"

"-_all beat up_ and not demand to know what had happened, so just get it over with and tell me," he finished, folding his arms and regarding his first officer expectantly.

"It is truly unimportant," Spock insisted, although he looked kind of like he knew he wasn't going to win this fight.

"Then it's not going to be a problem to tell me about it," Jim reasoned. Then he stood up, and walking over, impulsively closed his hands over Spock's hips and pressed a quick kiss to his lips.

Or it was _supposed_ to be quick, anyway. Instead it lingered for a while, warm and slow, one of those strange kisses of the kind he'd never had with anyone else. He followed it up with a couple more, chasing a brief fascination with Spock's lower lip until he decided that it was probably better to stop now, and Spock pressed their fingers together as he moved back.

"C'mon," he said. "I don't think there's anything you could say that would bother me. I once got into a fight with a guy because he was sitting next to me and we were both spoiling for it. I'm pretty sure you had a better reason than that."

A thought occurred to him, and he frowned a little, wondering if someone had brought up Spock's mother. He was starting to think that Vulcans had a real knack for being assholes in that subversive, insults-disguised-as-polite-observations kind of way.

"We have many things left to discuss," Spock finally agreed, his voice in that slightly lower tone of his. "Perhaps we could return to your quarters after our shift has completed and discuss matters more thoroughly then?"

Jim figured that was the best he was going to get, and he only failed to resist the urge to touch, kiss, or otherwise make contact with Spock a few more times before the half-Vulcan finally escaped, drawing a few glances as he exited the captain's quarters in an incomplete uniform. Several glances were speculative. None of them looked even remotely surprised, however. He wondered how long the gossip mill had had them going at it, despite the fact that last night was the first time aboard the ship.

His lips spread into a grin at that. He supposed this counted as an official christening, Jim Kirk style. For a moment he entertained a brief fantasy featuring himself, Spock, and his captain's chair, which was ludicrous and unprofessional and would remain strictly confined to his imagination (unless, of course, Spock should express an interest in hearing it, in which case it could have free reign of _his_ imagination too) but definitely put a spring in his step as he made his way to the bridge.

He didn't even realize he was whistling until he got into the turbolift with Not-Sulu, and that was something because Jim had never been a whistling kind of guy before. After a beat he cleared his throat and let the sound die off.

This whole thing? This was turning him into one of _those_ people.

He tried to think of an appropriate mental reference for what to call them, but the nearest he could turn up was 'stupidly happy'. It never crossed his mind to wonder what his crew was making of his sudden mood-swing. He got the status report from his shift relief and looked it over, quietly wondering if Scotty _slept_, because there was another update from engineering and it looked like they were really pushing to make any possible trips to Starbase 18 as pointless as possible. All in all they were doing a pretty kickass job, too. Everyone was. If he hadn't known how bad the damage was he wouldn't have guessed it at this point.

The next time the turbolift whooshed open it was to admit his communications officer to the bridge. She took to her station, but kept shooting him curious glances.

Jim realized he was humming now.

_Fuck_.

Even though the humming was then promptly stopped, the curious glances (from Uhura and most of the other bridge crew, he realized after a minute) continued until Spock made his way onto the bridge.

And then, for some reason, it was like a collective group of lightbulbs went off, and suddenly nobody was interested anymore.

Having a ship crewed largely by deductive geniuses had its downsides.

"Sir, we've received a transmission from the _Nelson_," Uhura informed him after Spock had assumed his station, back straight and face typically unreadable. And if anyone else noticed the bruise on his cheek, no one was saying anything, although he thought there was a certain edge to his communications officer's voice that implied some distracted concern. "Shall I patch it through to you?"

"Yes, please, Lieutenant," he replied, and a moment later his armrest beeped to inform him that she'd done as much. He scrolled through the message. It was remarkably formal, covered in all the proper Starfleet crests and employing multiple references to the articles and subsections which had been observed, and Jim had a pretty good memory and he'd been looking into this stuff, but even considering that he had to pause a few times to figure out what 'Radiation Protocol 34-C' and 'Contact Protocol 189-F' and a few of their similarly-named cousins were. Either the person who had put together this report was the single most frightening being he had ever contemplated, or they were _Spock_. In a bad mood.

Jim mused that he could have taken the thirteen-page report and boiled it down into a single paragraph:

_We got to the planet. We didn't find any more Klingons. We returned the Irri to the surface, and they didn't seem happy about it, but there's not much else we can do about that until Command stops debating on what to do. We sent an away team down to the surface to examine the dilithium deposits. The results were inconclusive and an explosion delayed further investigation. Lieutenant Sulu was involved, but he's alright._

He was relieved to learn that Sulu wasn't seriously injured because there was an awful lot of superfluous text between the mention that he was with the away-team and the mention that he was still alive, and in between they'd decided to throw in that _someone_ _had died_. For a few minutes it had felt like he was playing on a morbidly sadistic game-show in text format.

At some point during his reading Spock had quietly wandered over. "I have forwarded the updates from the science department," he informed him professionally, surprising Jim who hadn't even heard him move. He nodded, with a grin – because it was Spock – and before his first officer returned to his station he'd quietly asked: "Has there been trouble?"

Jim blinked at him, then considered. "Nothing substantial," he replied. "You can read it yourself if you want to. In fact you probably should." There was a good chance that Spock would pick up anything in the report that he might have missed. He'd gotten phenomenally better at this stuff ever since he'd resolved to, but Starfleet's bureaucracy was like a force of nature. There were regulations and sub-sections and amendments _to_ those regulations and sub-sections, along with proper channels, codes, regulations that were absolutely imperative to follow and ones that seemed like they were out-dated or just plain weird and which no one _actually_ followed, but which still existed because they hadn't been cleaned out of the system yet. Then there were also the shortcuts, the strange terminology, and things that were generally only learned after years of service and familiarity with the system. Every time he changed the ship's status to Red or Yellow Alert, every time he re-organized the crew's shifts, or approved re-organizations for the department heads, every time they docked at a planet like Vulcan II or were delayed by trouble in engineering, or he left the bridge during a duty shift, or, in the most complicated cases, opened fire on another ship, there was a long laundry list of bullshit he needed to cite in order to explain and justify his actions.

It was like learning a whole other language, actually, and it sucked. Of course, he supposed that was why communications had an entire department, but even they couldn't translate everything out of Starfleet's peculiar eccentricities for him. Then there was the fact that it was one thing to take his own actions and reports and translate his actions into their more official forms, and it was another to take someone's otherwise unknown actions and translate them _out_ of it. So even though he was getting better, he was pretty sure he'd have to be captain for a while before he could read one of these things and catch not only the technical meaning, but any underlying notes that he was currently oblivious too.

Although he thought the message of this one might be 'neener, neener, we're professional', which undermined itself in spirit. It _did_ kind of make him feel better to think that some officer on the _Nelson_ had just unintentionally made themselves look like an idiot, though.

By the time he'd finished the report some of the edge had been taken off of his insanely good mood, which was probably for the best. He felt at ease in his chair as he went through the science station's update, which involved less creative phrasing than engineering's but made it sound like his ship's scientists were all very noble martyrs because they'd forgone several crucial repairs to their observational systems in favor of focusing their endeavors on the medical department for the time being.

"I'll be sure and tell Bones that he owes you one, Spock," Jim quipped lightly, the bridge still relatively quiet with the morning shift change.

"I am certain he will be appropriately receptive to that concept," Spock replied, and when Jim glanced up at him he was still facing his station, but he got the briefest impression that wasn't unlike a twitch of his lips. Just a faint, easy-to-miss undercurrent of amusement.

He grinned.

And then it was all business for the next several hours, particularly when they received word from the colony that the maintenance and engineering staff they'd loaned them for equipment repairs could had completed their tasks with 'admirable efficiency' and could be returned to the ship, and would the _Enterprise_ be taking the _Nelson_ back their crew as well? Which was an interesting question, since Jim knew they would be rendezvousing with the ship again in the near future, but if they actually wound up going to the damn starbase then he wasn't sure if they'd be meeting them before the _Nelson_ itself was in the vicinity to pick up their people.

In the end he decided to take them aboard if for no other reason than that they could use the additional help with their own repairs, and that the colony temperatures were pretty rough on humans after a while. Then he dispatched a message to the _Nelson_ to let them know.

It was past noon when he felt Spock's familiar presence lingering over his shoulder. He glanced up, curious and questioning, and his first officer inclined his head slightly. "It is past time for a meal break," Spock informed him straight-forwardly.

Jim blinked. He generally forgot to eat lunch at least half of the time, but given that they'd skipped breakfast that morning in lieu of… other activities, and Spock had mentioned it, he guessed he _should_ probably eat something.

"Alright," he agreed. "Lieutenant…" Not-Sulu. Damn. "Johnson," he guessed, "you have the conn."

It must have been the right name. Either that or Johnson was a really good sport, because all he got was a cheerful 'yes, sir' before he followed Spock to the turbolift.

When the doors closed he gave Spock his best, most flirtatious smile. "Are we actually going to eat lunch, or was that an excuse to get me alone?" he asked, and felt deeply satisfied and just a _little_ smug when that comment got him just the slightest blush.

"It would be inadvisable to make a habit of missing meals," Spock said, his slightly reproachful tone running in contrast to the look in his eyes, which quite clearly said that if humans didn't require regular nutrition then they would be heading for his quarters instead of the mess hall. Which made Jim seriously reconsider how hungry he was.

But Spock was still Spock, and apparently that meant eating on one's lunch break and not running off for midday sex. Still, Jim extended a hand towards him anyway as they exited the lift, and as warm fingers brushed against his he mused that he didn't have anything to complain about right then. And maybe he could get a head start on figuring out what _exactly_ had happened down on the surface while he was gone.

"Some of the data from our recent upgrades was corrupted," Spock informed him quietly as they entered the mess hall, his tone low.

Jim glanced at him. "Corrupted as in, 'damn, that weird weapon really did a number on us' corrupted or corrupted as in 'someone's been messing around in our files' corrupted?" he asked in an equally quiet voice as they retrieved their meals, Spock's vegetarian dish looking about as appetizing as the plate it was on.

Spock seemed momentarily taken aback. "It was not my intent to imply sabotage," he said, still speaking quietly enough that they wouldn't be overheard. "I believe it was, in fact, a case of incompetence. Ensign Tormolen has been given several assignments which have not been completed with satisfactorily," he explained.

"Tormolen?" Jim asked, running the name through his head as they took their seats.

"He is in my department, and is usually proficient at his duties. But he has shown an unfortunate propensity for neglecting to follow safety and maintenance protocols."

Spock seemed just this-side of annoyed.

Jim frowned a little. "You reprimanded him, right?" he asked.

"This would be the third time," Spock replied. "I believe more severe action should be taken at this point. Ensign Tormolen is fairly young, and while the majority of the crew has adjusted well, it would not be unreasonable to consider that some of our officers are as yet incapable of properly conducting their duties."

"Wait, you want to send him back to the academy?" he asked, blinking a little.

Before Spock could answer, a gruff voice from over his shoulder asked "Send _who_ back to the academy?" and Bones slid into the seat next to him.

"Ensign Tormolen," Jim supplied before clapping the doctor on the shoulder, not sure if it was really that great to have the extra company now that he could finally talk to Spock – despite his first officer's inexplicable choice of subjects – but willing to go with it.

"Never heard of him," Bones replied bluntly. Then his gaze fixed on Spock's cheek, and he frowned. "What in hell happened to your face, Spock?" he demanded.

Jim gave his first officer an expectant look. "Yeah, Spock," he said. "What the hell happened to your face?"

---

**Author's Note:** First things first, I am, very, _very_ sorry about how long it took to get this chapter out, and the whole unpleasant disappearing act. My laptop was quite old and finally died, and to make a long story short, it took me awhile but I wound up just buying a new one. Unfortunately I lost a lot of my files, so I also had to then re-write this chapter and a bunch of other stuff, but I got this chapter finished and so I'm posting it straight-away with my heartfelt apologies for the wait and for probably scaring some people into thinking I'd died or vanished or something.

I have a mind-boggling number of messages and so I won't be answering all of them, and it'll take me a while to get through them, but suffice it to say thanks to everyone for every nice/wonderful/kind thing, and I'll read it even it I don't reply, but if I reply to everything then it'll probably take me an age to do it and I've got a lot of writing to do to make up for lost time and files.

Also, I do apologize if this chapter wasn't up to standard. I couldn't do any writing without my laptop and so I might be rusty from the dry-spell, as well as the fact that the first half of this chapter was a pretty close re-write.


End file.
